


Fondu Au Noir

by daphnerunning, Galiko



Series: A Melting, Fading World [1]
Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Drama, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Romance, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-18 08:31:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 230,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galiko/pseuds/Galiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Co-written with DaphneRunning. Post chapter 110 extrapolation (and then some). After Judal's arrival in Sindria, war seems inevitable, and Sinbad's options to manage and deal with Al-Sarmen's Magi seem few and far between. Al-Sarmen, however, seems as weary of Judal's mercurial nature as Sindria... SinJu, SinJa, AlaJu, SphinTitus, EnJa, EnJu, and a smidgen of AlaJuKougyoku!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

This couldn't be worse. 

 

 _That's a lie_ , Ja'far tells himself, all while grinding his teeth and snapping terse commands to restore some sort of order in the wake of Judal's arrival and departure. Did that _brat_ really show up just to talk to Sinbad? Going through the effort--no matter how relatively little effort it actually seemed to take--of breaking Yamuraiha's shield just to have a few words and laugh in the king's face… 

 

It would be good now, after this particular minor disasters among disasters, if Sinbad finally would see.

 

It takes some time before Ja'far is finally confident that the city isn't going to implode, no matter his continued wariness about lack of defenses. Obviously, they aren't doing Sindria any favors, anyway, if Judal can simply waltz in without hesitation. Then, and only then, does he bother seeking Sinbad out again, though the _sight_ of the man makes his vision go a little red--

 

_No. Deep, soothing breaths._

 

"When are you going to stop humoring him?" Probably not the most diplomatic way to start a conversation, and certainly not the politest way to address one's king, but Ja'far is a little beyond that at this point.

 

Sinbad doesn’t look up at first, hands rested easily on the railing, his eyes fixed out on the horizon. Really, all things considered, it hasn’t been all that long since the sight of the stars winking out one after another, in patterns or at random, would have been nothing more than the passing of clouds. Now, he has to wonder whether it’s an airborne monster, a friend flying through the night, some unknown creature large enough to swallow his own country.

 

Just a cloud, after all.

 

“I don’t humor him, Ja’far. Judal does as he pleases. He always has.” _You know that better than most._

 

Ja'far's lips purse, and he realizes, academically, that now _really is not the time_ , but--

 

No. Wrong. There is no better time.

 

"And if those tears had been genuine? What then? Would you have taken him in with open arms, even _knowing_ that every single time before, he's made a fool of you?"

 

Sinbad turns, folding his arms across his broad chest, piercing dark eyes fixed on Ja’far. For the moment, he chooses to let the insult go, though Ja’far knows as well as anyone that it won’t be forgotten, either. If Ja’far didn’t speak his mind, he wouldn’t be a useful general, after all. “You haven’t seen him like I have. One of these days he’ll truly break. And when we have a Magi on our side who has every reason to hate Al-Sarman just as much as you and I do--will you still call me a fool?”

 

_And those tears were genuine. Judal just doesn’t know it._

 

"Yes," is Ja'far's simple, unhesitating response, his arms folding tensely within his sleeves. "Because when he 'truly breaks', he won't be _here_. He'll be useless. What good is a Magi that won't even be able to hold his head up to you?"

 

“You take him too lightly. He must have more strength than that, to go against their will enough even to come here, after being in their clutches for so long.” The night air is cold, though being so close to the sea keeps them warmer than those icy nights in the desert. It’s just enough that he doesn’t mind walking around barefoot even in his own palace, leaning against a stone pillar. “Besides, even if he does break to the point of uselessness, I’d think you’d be happy. At least then Al-Sarmen won’t have him. It’s not like I’ve forbidden you to kill him or anything.”

 

_As if you could._

 

_I won't be happy because I'll be listening to you stress over it day in and day out._

 

Ja'far exhales a slow, measured breath, taking a step closer no matter how his frown deepens. "You call it strength--a better name for it is simple _madness._ Sinbad, must I remind you of how effectively he's tricked you-- _all of us_ \--before? I was hoping you would learn after your _first_ meeting with him that while he certainly isn't… the brightest among us, he has enough firepower in his own hands and behind him to make our lives miserable. I have no doubts if he is going to 'break', that is going to come down around him and undoubtedly, if you keep extending your hand to him, upon _us._ "

 

“You speak as if he gives me a choice.” Sinbad is bristling a little, and it’s hard not to rely on his usual methods, towering over the smaller person physically and mentally until they _realize_ that he’s right. That doesn’t work with Ja’far, and never gets Sinbad anything but a rather remarkable amount of pain. “I’ve told him to leave before. You saw what happened last time. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that this time he was holding back.”

 

Judal’s never looked more lost, more panicked than when he’d been laughing. Sinbad knows mirth all too well, and has never seen it in Judal’s eyes when he smiles.

 

"Holding back--how reassuring, when he has left us defenseless until Yamuraiha returns." Ja'far doesn't bother biting back a snort--never mind that sarcasm helps nothing, but _really_. "Telling him to leave isn't the same as unextending every invitation you've ever made." 

 

Sinbad folds his arms, scowling down at the smaller man. “You think it would be better to leave him no option than to choose a man of the Kou Empire? Telling a Magi of his power, under the control of Al-Sarmen, that he doesn’t have a single other option, no matter how remote or tenuous? I prefer not to catch my enemies’ weapons, sharpen them, and toss them gently back.”

 

"So instead, you would rather him continue to knock at your door and become more and more frustrated until, like today, he claims he would rather kill you," Ja'far blandly retorts, his eyebrows arching.

 

“He _didn’t_ kill me,” Sinbad points out helpfully. “I don’t think he truly wants to. He’s like a cat--once you kill the mouse, there’s no fun in playing with it anymore.” Perhaps not the most flattering comparison he’s ever made to himself, but rather accurate, all things considered. “At least he had the decency to come in public this time instead of in through the window.”

 

There is absolutely no stopping the urge to bury his face into one hand, complete with a long-suffering sigh. "How long are you going to rely on your perceived 'affection' towards you, exactly? And really, if you think he sees you as a rodent, then even that is a very questionable thing…"

 

“A figure of speech, nothing more. You should know better than I how well Al-Sarmen has messed with his head. He’s...not entirely _right_ , you must agree. That doesn’t mean he’s devoid of worth.”

 

_And you never saw him, clinging and shaky and nuzzling against my chest, his eyes full of starlight and his hands unsure. You don’t know how hard it is to tell if he’s the best liar in the world, or the worst, even for me._

 

"You defend him like a lover," Ja'far bluntly retorts. 

 

Sinbad can feel the heat on his tongue to reply, the denial, strong and angry, and that knowledge stops him. He leans back hard against the pillar, casting his eyes up to the night sky. “Do I really?” There’s no one who knows him like Ja’far, after all. It’s just always felt so _natural_ to look for what he knows is salvageable in those mad red eyes.

 

Ja'far heaves another sigh, and it's with that that he finally steps forward entirely, his own back hitting the pillar next to his king. "Every single time. In any other situation, I would find it merely trying--somewhat amusing at best--but all things considered, you could not have picked a worse bedmate."

 

“I hope that’s not a challenge. It sounds like something I wouldn’t mind trying.” Especially if the results are anything like Judal, wild and unpredictable and dangerous and damn it all, Ja’far is right. “He’s--I _do_ know what he is. There’s no rose-colored lie over my eyes.”

 

"Then you are made for one another," Ja'far tiredly replies, his eyes rolling skyward, "because you are certainly being as foolish as he is on a regular basis."

 

One hand reaches out, tilting Ja’far’s face up to meet Sinbad’s eyes. “What would you have me do? Speak honestly. I have no desire to lose more of our people to his mad whimsy.”

 

"… You have few choices," Ja'far slowly answers, and his head tips slightly, a weary lean into Sinbad's hand following. "Accept his invitation to be his candidate--assuming he'll extend it again--or kill him. If you think you can. Barring that… moving whatever plans you have along for Aladdin would be wise."

 

“Accept his invitation if I can, kill him if I can.” Sinbad smoothes Ja’far’s hair down, stroking softly with one large hand. “You’ve never doubted me so much before, my friend.”

 

Ja'far allows a light, amused snort at that. "You've never been so… preoccupied before, either. Ordering me to _stand down_ to the likes of him--I would have enjoyed cutting his little waterworks show short."

 

“It wasn’t the time nor the place for a confrontation of that scale.” _You didn’t see it as I did. You didn’t feel his power surge like I’ve rarely felt before, from any being in the world. You would not have been as safe as you felt yourself._ “Doubtless it will come to something of the sort, if he can’t be…” Sinbad hears the forlorn hope on his lips, and winces. Perhaps Ja’far has a point.

 

"… The problem," Ja'far eventually says, sighing as he leans back, looking up at Sinbad with a shake of his head, "is that you want so badly to save him, for whatever reason. Regard him as already lost, as you do _every other enemy_ , and this becomes much simpler. I realize," he dryly adds, "that I am talking to a brick wall regarding this. But honestly, if you would just tread more _carefully_ \--"

 

At that, Sinbad has to scowl, stretching his arms out to lean against the railing once more, eyes focused on the busy scurrying activity of his people, doggedly repairing any damage left by massive spears of ice. “Every other enemy? Are you saying that should someone try to kill me, I should execute them immediately and spare no thought for what they might have been, what they could still be? _Every_ enemy?”

 

"That would, in general, be the most efficient way of going about things," Ja'far drawls. "In regards to the _parallel_ you are attempting to draw here, I would not have faulted you for killing me on sight."

 

“Good. Then you understand what I mean when I say that in situations like that…” Sinbad turns, giving Ja’far an almost rueful grin. “Efficiency is perhaps the least favored of my outcomes. I would gladly have suffered an injury like the trouble Judal has caused if it meant having you by my side these last many years.”

 

"And yet you're still not mindful of the difference." He's _just_ shy of shaking Sinbad, not that it would do anything more than make the man _laugh._ "Judal just told you to your face that he has been under Al-Sarmen's influence since infancy. He has _yet_ to show a shred of remorse for what he's done to you and the rest of us. What good is there to waste time on a person like that?"

 

Sinbad stops short of belaboring the point, deigning not to draw more parallels. If Ja’far weren’t intelligent to see them on his own, he’d hardly be the man Sinbad had recruited those many years ago. “I wonder who you’re more annoyed with, me, or with yourself for teaching me that even the coldest of killers just need a little…” He steps close, leaning down to brush a strand of wispy hair out of his counselor’s face. “...convincing.”

 

Ja'far contemplates biting him. "… Your penchant to be charming on occasion doesn't work when a person is utterly _insane_ ," he sniffs instead, reaching up to bat away Sinbad's hand. "Stop letting him stay when he invites himself in and maybe you will get somewhere."

 

 _Ooh, not in the mood._ Not like Sinbad couldn’t convince him (probably--Ja’far is better at seeing through him than, well, _anybody_ ), but Ja’far deserves a better answer than that. “All right. Unless something changes, I’ll stop letting him stay.”

 

The stare that fixes itself upon Sinbad is far _less_ than convinced. "Is that along the lines of, 'I'll stop drinking so much, Ja'far' or 'I'll take a wife in the next year, Ja'far', or--"

 

Sinbad lays a finger across Ja’far’s lips, knowing that he’s close to being bitten and not minding. “Not in the slightest. This is something I actually _want_ to do. It’s not exactly in my best interests to let him keep...what was the phrase you used last time? Walking all over me from between my legs up?”

 

"… To make sure we are clear," Ja'far mutters, frowning against Sinbad's finger and just barely restraining himself from nipping it. "'Not letting him stay' does _not_ mean 'bed him, then kick him out.'"

 

Sinbad raises his eyebrows, leaning forward enough to back Ja’far against the pillar. “No? Maybe you should show me exactly what I’m not supposed to do to him, then. Just so I’m clear.”

 

"Incorrigible," is the cross retort to follow, though Ja'far relents slightly as he leans back into the pillar, a long sigh letting _some_ of the tension flood free from his body. There's only so much he can chide Sinbad before it simply begins going in one ear and out the other, and he has apparently reached that point. It's for the best; this conversation is always tiresome after awhile. His lips twist wryly as he lifts his head, catching Sinbad's gaze. "First of all, you are definitely not suppose to take  him back to your chambers proper to _continue_ things. Tossing him over the railing and being done with him for the evening would be the wiser decision."

 

Sinbad nods, setting aside the fact that Judal would find being tossed over a railing about as much of an inconvenience as beings sneezed at. “Wise advice, General. I can always depend on your opinion. So--just so we’re clear--I’m _not_ supposed to do anything such as, say, tossing him over my shoulder and carrying him off to have my wicked way with him?” The light in his eyes is probably warning enough, and the fact that he makes no effort to hide the motion he’s making is more than warning enough for someone like Ja’far to avoid being captured, if it’s truly his will.

 

So help him, he should be more annoyed. "… Considering someone like _Judal_ would probably _enjoy_ such a thing quite thoroughly," is the resigned sigh to follow instead, with just a _hint_ of amusement in place, "no, you certainly should not do that. Any of it."

 

“Ah. Yes, that wouldn’t be wise.” Sinbad leans down, his face a bare inch from Ja’far’s, their foreheads nearly touching. “What else should I be wary not to do? I want to be sure I’m _thorough_ , after all. I may need a demonstration.”

 

"Since when have you ever needed my guidance so heavily?" Ja'far's head tilts back, just enough to impishly avoid the other man's touch. "I would think a king such as yourself to be wiser in deducing such matters." 

 

“Since when?” Sinbad feigns chastised shame, eyes wide. “Since my most trusted counselor told me I was making an ass of myself, of course. Or do you think I take your advice so lightly?” He turns his head, taking advantage of Ja’far’s posture to brush his lips against the smaller man’s neck.

 

Ja'far rolls his eyes, but damn it all, it's difficult to stay _so_ very tense when Sinbad's mouth is against his skin. "You have a tendency," he breathes, relenting enough to lift one hand and catch a fist-full of Sinbad's clothing, pulling him closer, "to pretend to be deaf at times. Perhaps you don't recall." 

 

“Ah, you misunderstand,” Sinbad assures him, relenting easily to Ja’far’s tug, his hands resting on either side of Ja’far’s head on the pillar. “I always listen. I’m just _terribly_ forgetful at times.” He steps forward until his body is flush against Ja’far’s, and it’s odd that such a small man can be such a _force_ , mentally and physically and magically. It’s one of the things Sinbad likes the best about his counsellor, and what drives him the most to those little scrapes of his teeth, the flicks of his tongue in a line up the underside of Ja’far’s jaw.

 

Opening his mouth to argue is a poor decision when Sinbad's teeth nick into his flesh, especially when it brings him to strangle a low, breathy sound. Better judgment would be pushing Sinbad away, insisting on retiring to his chambers--and if he insists, the whole tossing-over-his-shoulder gambit--but in moments like these… well. Ja'far fully admits to his judgement clouding, especially as he reclines into the pillar, his head tipping back with a little shiver, and his hands drag their way down Sinbad's sides, around to his lower back to only encourage him. 

 

Well--he's a little done with arguing for the evening, anyway.

 

There’s always something of a _question_ with Ja’far--not that the man resists him, but he has his moods, and Sinbad has learned well just how unwise it is to try and persuade him into doing anything he doesn’t feel like. There’s little need for it anyway--Ja’far is never his last resort, and both of them like it that way. It makes these times, these few times when they’re together, both wanting, both interested, that much better. 

 

Sick of leaning over, Sinbad hoists Ja’far up, pressing him hard against the pillar as he continues his assault on the younger man’s neck, one hand wandering to his chest as a force of habit, then hastily dragging down his belly instead.

 

A little snort of amusement follows, no matter how Ja'far squirms, his thighs pressing tight to Sinbad's hips while his hands find better purchase sinking into the man's hair. "Every time," he sighs out, breath hitching as Sinbad sucks, bites, sending little shivers straight down his spine and bringing Ja'far to tug and yank on the man's hair. "It begs the question of how you manage not to be _bored_ when you don't have something to fondle."

 

Sinbad grins, his hand snaking down to cup between Ja’far’s legs, cupping him through the fabric. “I’m sure I’ll find something to keep my hands busy,” he promises. God, he likes it when Ja’far is in a mood like this, and he supposes Judal is really to blame, riling him up this much. 

 

Hastily, he shoves the Magi from his mind. That’s the kind of thing Ja’far would _notice_ , and not the kind of thing he’d tolerate.

 

Ja'far's eyes squeeze shut, a groan swallowed down for the sake of what lingering _propriety_ they have left--no matter how he shifts, wriggles in hopes of splaying his legs a bit more, all too content to allow himself the _luxury_ of Sinbad's touch, the hard, heated press of his body… never mind that anyone could stumble upon them. It makes him flush as much as it makes him _stress_. "As good of a demonstration as this is regarding what you _shouldn't_ do to one very annoying Magi," he breathes, "don't you think _we_ would be better served… somewhere more private?" 

 

For a moment, Sinbad ignores him, enjoying just a little too much the feel of Ja’far’s body, the heated puffs of his breath, the little wriggles he makes at every touch of Sinbad’s hand. But it’s all too soon that he can feel Ja’far’s anxiety rising, making every heady squirm a little less out of pleasure and a little more out of nerves. 

 

Before Ja’far can start pleading in earnest, Sinbad nods, pulling away and giving Ja’far’s headdress a gentle tug to straighten it. “Counsellor, may I suggest that we adjourn to my chambers? I have a _lot_ more problems I think you could help me with. And, ah, I’ll race you there.”

 

A lot of _problems_ indeed. More accurate would be how _hard_ Sinbad's cock already had been while pressing against him, and how good his hands had felt on him, leaving him a little weak-kneed and wobbly as Ja'far tries not to sag into the pillar like one of Sinbad's thoroughly worked over _women._ " _Racing_ sounds a bit childish, don't you think?" Never mind that he's already out of breath and feeling less inclined to stand, let alone move briskly. 

 

Fine, if Ja’far doesn’t want to be diplomatic about it, Sinbad can think of other ways. “Just a bit impatient,” he confesses. “But really, this works just as well.” 

 

He picks the younger man up, tossing him over one broad shoulder as he strides through the halls, long legs making the trip a short one indeed. All in all, it’s quite an accomplishment to get back to his chambers without Ja’far stabbing him in the back.

 

Ja'far doesn't shriek. No, that would be undignified, though by the time he's dumped onto Sinbad's bed, squawking isn't out of his league, nor is glaring and huffing with fingers twitchy enough to consider pulling free his blades. "There are far _better_ ways to handle impatience," is the growl to follow as he yanks his keffiyeh from his head, leaving his hair decidedly ruffled in the process as he glowers up at Sinbad. 

 

“Oh? What a good thing then, that I have a counsellor to tell me such important words of wisdom.” Sinbad loosens his collar, but pauses a moment, the smile on his face turning from simply lecherous to contemplative, and a little nostalgic. For a moment, prickly and ruffled, Ja’far looks every bit the young, cold-eyed assassin that had stolen into his rooms more than a decade ago.

 

A little hiss through his teeth, and Ja'far lurches up to the end of the bed, a hand fisting into the front of Sinbad's robes to drag him forward and down with surprising strength. "I will agree with you for once, however," he heatedly replies, all as his mouth fastens to the arc of Sinbad's throat, teeth dragging over his skin, "that now is not really the time for it."

 

Ja’far alone, of all the people Sinbad takes to his bed on a regular basis, knows something of the full extent of his power. And for that and other reasons, Ja’far is alone the only person Sinbad trusts himself with, to allow insights other men never get, to let himself be bared. 

 

Not completely, of course. Sinbad would never want to inflict all of himself on anyone

 

Ja’far’s teeth are sharp and demanding, and the scrape of them against his skin goes straight to Sinbad’s cock, eliciting a low growl from his throat. He leans down, the weight of his body pressing Ja’far down into the soft down mattress, spreading his legs wide with one jerk of his hands. “No,” he agrees, hands sliding up the younger man’s inner thighs. “Now’s not the time for talking, unless you want to beg.” _Or unless I do._

 

His next breath is a heavy, hot pant, dragging air desperately into his lungs. It's a little thing, the reassured, firm _force_ of Sinbad's touch, with the strength behind it enough to make Ja'far groan, his legs spreading wide whether he wants them to or not, but it makes his cock twitch, makes his back arch, and god if it isn't difficult not to just rut himself up against the other man until he's lost. _Why don't we do this more often again? Right, because I turn you down. Again, why?_ "The King of Sindria wants his _general_ to beg," Ja'far pants out, letting his head loll back as his hands circle around to Sinbad's back, raking down his shoulders. "Isn't that a little unseemly?" 

 

Sinbad grins, his eyes dark with promise and lust, as he places a hard, sucking bite just over Ja’far’s pulse before he pulls away to disrobe his general, laying him bare. “Just wanted to give you the option. I like it when you ask for what you want.”

 

He ducks his head down, nuzzling against Ja’far’s stomach before kissing down, laying his cheek against the steady warmth of a lean thigh. “As your king, I’m honor bound to make certain all your needs are taken care of, after all,” he says casually, close enough that the hot air of his speech ghosts over the head of Ja’far’s cock, ending by flicking the tip of his tongue across the head.

 

Any and all words die on Ja'far's lips at that first, heated swipe of Sinbad's tongue, bringing him to sag back into the bed with a hard shudder, his head tossing to the side. His hands twitch, and no matter how he tries not to simply lurch up, seeking _more_ of his king's mouth, it's impossible for a hand not to tangle up within Sinbad's hair, the other fisting into the bed coverings as he _squirms._ "You do… a fair job of that already." God, his voice is already little more than a needy whine.

 

It had been a sweet-faced girl, one Salma by name, who had taught Sinbad most of what he knows of giving pleasure with his mouth. She’d been right, teaching by example all manner of ways to suckle and caress a man, proving just how effective her methods were on him, and Sinbad aims to make her proud, fitting his lips over the head of Ja’far’s cock and sucking, swirling his tongue over the stiff flesh. “ _No women really enjoy it,_ ” she’d told him with a laugh, the first time he’d protested. “ _What we like is watching you men thrash around and go all red in the cheeks.”_

 

Awkward and difficult as the task may be, Salma had been right--hearing Ja’far gasping, feeling him tremblingly hard, seeing him twitching, is more than compensation enough.

 

If nothing else can be said about Sinbad, it's that he honestly _does_ make Ja'far forget why this isn't a more commonplace thing, and why he isn't content to sprawl himself in Sinbad's bed more often, writhing beneath each drag of his tongue, the muscles of his thighs tense and bunching from the effort it takes not to thrust up and along the man's tongue. " _Sin_ \--"

 

Hearing his name, shortened and gasped out, is enough to make Sinbad’s cock ache. Knowing that he’s done this, reduced the careful, calculated Ja’far to this kind of incoherent, desperate noise, is enough to make him groan around the hard slick flesh in his mouth, spurred on to take more in, his hands stroking and caressing the younger man’s inner thighs, stealing around to squeeze his ass.

 

It's with a bitten back groan that Ja'far surrenders to the upward lurch of his hips, fingers digging into Sinbad's scalp as he slides deeper down the man's throat, his breath an unsteady, unhinged thing as his toes curl at how it feels to be worked so thoroughly, buried in nothing but slick, wet heat. "I--" Anything else is lost on a shaky exhale, jumbled up in a number of throaty, mindless noises, and to _hell_ with self-control when something feels this good. It takes little more than the heat of Sinbad's throat, the upward twitch of his own hips and the other man's strong, broad hands digging into his flesh for Ja'far to simply lose himself, tension leaving him in a rush as he floods Sinbad's mouth with a ragged gasp.

 

This--this, here--this is Sinbad’s reward.

 

It’s a rare treat to see Ja’far anything other than composed, or occasionally angry. Lazy, sated relaxation is in general a thing that happens to other people, and it’s always that much more of a challenge, that much more of a _victory_ to see Ja’far like this. 

 

Sinbad pulls off, wiping his mouth with one hand, content for the moment to stroke Ja’far’s sides, his thighs, simply watching him be lost in the shockwaves of the pleasure Sinbad had given him. “Did your king serve you well?” he asks in a voice so low it’s nearly a lion’s purr, eyes half-lidded.

 

There might have been a retort in store if not for the sort of strangled, mindless sound that escapes instead, and thus Ja'far gives up, sagging down into the mattress with another, hard shiver, his hands wound up in Sinbad's hair tugging, coaxing him upward no matter the now decided shakiness in his grasp. "Amazing, how you can sometimes be so conscientious," he lowly replies, a hand dragging its way southward, breath quickening at the hardness of Sinbad's own cock within his palm. "That being said--a king should allow himself his own pleasure once in awhile."

 

Sinbad opens his mouth, then shuts it again. Now is not a prudent time to remind Ja’far that the vast majority of the time, it’s _he_ who’s telling Sinbad pretty much the opposite, that there’s far too much of his own pleasure in his life.

 

Well, if Ja’far wants to turn the tables, and do it by curling that deft hand around Sinbad’s cock, then Sinbad is the last person who wants to stop him. He threads a hand through the fine strands of Ja’far’s hair, hips rolling slowly against his hand. “And what pleasure will you give your king tonight, Counsellor?”

 

He's still dizzy, vision still glazed, but god if Sinbad doesn't feel good in his hand, no matter how his fingers dare to shake as he squeezes, thumb coming up to drag over the slick head of Sinbad's cock. Ja'far's lips part, tongue flicking out over his lower lip, and there's no helping the shift to splay his thighs, the _welcoming_ arc of his back as he gives the king's cock a gentle tug, suddenly and desperately wishing he were already slick and ready and he could simply guide Sinbad into his body right then and there. "My body is yours, as I have always promised it to you."

 

If there’s one kind of body language Sinbad can read, it’s when a woman wants him between her thighs. Men are more difficult, but Ja’far’s words give the truth to the action, every part of him arching and shifting and _welcoming_ , and Sinbad isn’t so rude as to turn down an invitation. That, or he’s hungry enough for Ja’far’s body that he’ll take it, and hope for the best.

 

It’s been a long time, and Sinbad is nearly completely sure that Ja’far hasn’t had another man since him. He dips his fingers into the pot of aloe by the bedside, trailing his fingertips up and down the cleft of Ja’far’s ass. “Lie back. Relax.”

 

Easier said than done, and Sinbad was right in leaving him a sated, pleasantly lulled mess prior to the slick slide of those fingers. Tension is a thing Ja'far always finds himself privy to, and now is no exception, though it's of a different, eager kind, leaving him to squirm down, breathing in fast through his nose. "I'm fine," he insists, and if isn't more painful to wait and want, nothing is.

 

“I know you are.” Sinbad’s mouth presses agains Ja’far’s neck, nipping and suckling, even as two of his fingers slide in. Ja’far is ridiculously tight, tight enough for nicknames that Sinbad isn’t cruel enough to speak aloud, and even if he knows how good it’s going to feel around his cock, he’s still careful, still takes his time stretching the younger man with every slide and curl of his fingers, no matter how hard and ready he’s been for a while now.

 

Even as _fine_ as he says he is, Ja'far is still fast to bite his lip, lest the rasp and whine of his voice betray him. After so long, two of Sinbad's long fingers are enough to make him writhe, enough to leave his thighs spreading wantonly open, enough to make him _ache_ with each stroke and slide, no matter how slick. It's a difficult thing, not reaching to grasp at Sinbad's wrist, to still the movement of his hand just for a moment--not for any pain, god help him if he's ever that weak, but for the sheer fact it's all _overwhelming_. "Sin," is his eventual, breathless gasp, the affectionate abbreviation of Sinbad's name a thoughtless thing now. " _Please_ \--"

 

With anyone else, there would be no hesitation. Even if he isn’t drunk right now, the blood boils with every touch of skin to skin, and for all his power Sinbad is a man. When the person he’s with begs for more, well, he’s been accused of a great many things, but rarely bad form.

 

Ja’far, though, is different, and so Sinbad slips in a third finger, and stills, hovering above him. “Are you sure you’re ready? I don’t want to hurt you.” _And you’re still so tight around my fingers that I’m sure I won’t be able to stop once I’m inside you._

 

Ja'far groans, all but thrashing at the slide and stretch of that third finger, his legs trembling in their desperate splay. "I _want_ you," he bites out, voice little more than a hiss, and it's with a broken, keening sound that his hips arch, pressing down into the king's hand. "If it hurts, then I want that, too." 

 

Despite what Ja’far says, Sinbad is careful, gentle when he climbs between Ja’far’s legs, removing his hand to wipe it on the bedspread. Every time, he’s worried that this time, Ja’far won’t like it, or do as he’s been threatening and stop inviting Sinbad to his bed altogether, even though after every time, Ja’far’s done nothing but tell him it will be less rare from now on.

 

Either way, Sinbad’s not a patient man when he doesn’t have to be, and only a tremendous will of effort helps him slide in slowly, inch by thick inch at a time. “Good?”

 

Words aren't exactly something Ja'far feels he has a penchant for when he feels as though he's being stuffed full, aching all the more with each inch spreading him open. It's not something he ever thinks he'll be used to--not for lack of any frequency, though that certainly doesn't _help_ , but rather the sheer intensity of it all, with Sinbad warm and heavy above him, his cock buried deep into his ass and god all of this is so intensely, painfully lewd that it's a wonder that he no longer harbors any shame for it. 

 

He blames Sinbad for that entirely. 

 

"Good--" Ja'far shudders, his back arching up in a sinuous little writhe, pushing himself further down Sinbad's cock and left gasping for his trouble. "It's--" _Good, perfect, too much, always too much and if you stop I really will stab you--_

 

Something about making love to Ja’far always makes Sinbad sort of grateful that Ja’far doesn’t currently have access to his knives, for some reason. Thinking about it only spurs him on, even though he knows it’s probably not healthy to be quite so aroused by the thought of what Ja’far used to be, by the thought that he’s no longer that because of _Sinbad_. 

 

Ja’far is painfully tight, always is, and sometimes Sinbad has to wonder if Ja’far knows how gentle he is when they’re together. It’s a strain, a challenge, because all he wants to do is slam hard into that tightness again and again, losing himself there, and he holds back. It will be better at the end, for all this. It always is. Bedding Ja’far is more work than bedding anyone else, and Sinbad never comes away feeling so good from anyone else’s bed. 

 

He pins Ja’far’s wrists above his head, bracing his weight as he takes the young man, every so often placing a bruising kiss on his lips in time with the rocking of his body. _Want to watch you become mine again,_ he urges silently, staring down at the man.

 

Each roll of Sinbad's hips, every slide of his cock--it leaves Ja'far feeling that much weaker, that much more useless, a trembling thing trapped beneath Sinbad's hands and mouth and every inch of his cock that leaves him feeling so _full_ \--

 

There's no one else, really, that would leave him feeling so _content_ about all of that. 

 

He groans and arches, eyes lidded and dark, skin flushed hot with each squirm and shiver of his body, intent on more, _more_ no matter how careful Sinbad is. And god, does he know how careful the man is, and as much as Ja'far appreciates it, there's a part of him that wants to be left used entirely, sprawled over the bed and less than inclined to move the next day, if only he had the privilege. "Harder," he lowly insists between kisses, his fingers flexing, arms straining beneath Sinbad's hold. 

 

It’s dangerous, to not give Ja’far what he wants. 

 

Of course, that has nothing to do with why Sinbad finds it so easy to give in to the command.

 

 _You can take it, can’t you?_ Sinbad thinks, the heat in his body swelling, rising with every slap of his hips, less controlled now, less held back, and he knows Ja’far will be aching tomorrow. Sinbad loves it, and he’ll make any excuse to come in and watch him shifting, uncomfortable and pained at how hard he’s been fucked, trying to hold still so no one sees.

 

They’re _going_ to see. Sinbad is going to make sure of that.

 

Ja’far’s lips are swollen and bruised, his legs spread as wide as they can go, his wrists pinned, and still Sinbad takes him harder, his own body thrumming with the sweet sharp ache of being buried in something so unbelievably _tight_. He’s not careful, not as careful as he should be, and he lets out a groan as he slams in entirely, hardly sparing a thought for how _small_ Ja’far is beneath him.

 

Ja'far can't _breathe._

 

It's stolen from him, all of his breath, the moment their hips are flush and his world narrows to little but how it feels to have all of Sinbad's cock inside of him, spreading him so wide that his legs couldn't close even if he _tried._ And oh, god, he has no desire to try, not with Sinbad between his thighs, fucking him into his bed like he's little more than some harlot to be used. 

 

No matter how spent he is, his body still hums with how _good_ it all is, his cock hardening with each thrust that makes quiet, breathy sounds turn to something more vocal, and it's desperation to keep those incriminating sounds back that brings Ja'far to turn his head aside, burying his face into his own arm, body twitching, lurching up into each thrust as he finds himself so utterly lost.

 

A low growl rips its way out of Sinbad’s throat, and he bites Ja’far’s shoulder hard. He holds the younger man’s wrists down with one hand, using the other to grasp his jaw, turning his face up. “All of it,” he breathes, rough and unsteady as the pressure builds, as his chest heaves. “Give me everything.”

 

Damn it, he doesn’t get Ja’far like this enough that he’s willing to settle for anything less than _everything_ , every sound and twitch and spasm of his muscles, and he drives in hard, harder than a man of Ja’far’s size should be able to take, knowing that he _can_. “Let me hear you.”

 

It's an impossible thing, disobeying. 

 

Not just because it's Sinbad, or because it feels so damnably good--it's both in tandem and there really is just no helping the broken, gasping keen that tears from his throat, or the way water pricks into his eyes because Sinbad is just pressed so _deeply_ inside of him and Ja'far swears he can nearly feel the man in his _throat_. The next, stuttering moan that escapes his lips is more a sob from how his chest heaves, and Ja'far is lost again, painfully, intensely overwhelmed and taken by surprise by it all as he spills with a spasm and upward jerk of his hips, every muscle drawn tight and trembling.

 

There’s an almost vindictive satisfaction in feeling Ja’far come clenching down around him, hearing those _whorish_ moans, seeing his normally carefully controlled advisor thrashing and coming onto the sheets from the press of Sinbad’s cock inside him. It’s enough to shatter the little control Sinbad has left, and he _knows_ he raises bruises with his last few thrusts, until he’s finally, utterly lost, spilling himself empty inside of Ja’far’s clenching body. “You,” he gasps, “just as you are...god, you are my undoing.”

 

Ja'far tries not to whimper, honestly, but the pathetic little sound escapes all the same as he sinks down into the mattress, eyes tightly shutting as he writhes at wet, hot slickness of Sinbad inside of him, that sensation of _fullness_ all the more apparent. "Likewise," he rasps out, and oh, how he can tell how sore he will be in the morning. The thought brings him to groan, surprisingly _pleased_ about it all, never mind the growing discomfort of throbbing, bruised limbs and muscles and the press of Sinbad inside of him quickly becoming _too much_ when not in the throes of pleasure.

 

The uncomfortable squirming rouses Sinbad from the half-drowse he tends to naturally slip into, and he carefully disentangles them, flopping down on his back next to Ja’far. “Any chance that was good enough that you’ll want me to do it more often?”

 

"It's always good," Ja'far grumbles, rolling painstakingly onto his side and dragging a hand up through his sweat-soaked hair. "You will get spoiled if this is a commonplace thing, though… also, there's really little _time_ for it."

 

“ _I’ll_ get spoiled?” Sinbad asks incredulously, laughing loud and genuine into the quiet of the room. He leans over, pressing a kiss against a sweaty brow. “Too right.”


	2. Chapter 2

It's _cold_ in Sindria. At least, in the mornings it is. Judal is used to waking up and it being sticky, hot, annoyingly humid--for a large portion of the Kou Empire, at any rate. Sindria is privy to ocean breezes no matter _how_ far inland one goes, and he's not sure he can appreciate it when he's left to sulk outside of Sinbad's window for a good pair of hours.

 

He should have started heading back by now. He's going to be late.

 

He also can't bring himself to care. 

 

It's a _wait_ before that annoying general leaves and Sinbad is actually alone, and Judal waits for the door to actually shut, his footsteps to carry some distance away, and only then does he dare crane his head around through the window, lips pursed in an already present pout as his hair falls forward to tumble into the room first. "Hey, do you know how cold it is out here? I've been waiting for _way_ too long." 

 

The sudden appearance of that dark head, dark eyes, and that _pout_ \--it startles Sinbad, and damned if that’s not terrifying in and of itself. There’s no reason he should be surprised by Judal’s appearance, not with that kind of Magoi, certainly not with the way the Rukh bends and twists around him like a forlorn lover. _My guard really was down_ , he realizes, hoisting himself to sit back against the headboard. “My apologies. I had no idea you were out there. Maybe if you sent ahead I’d have made arrangements.”

 

He folds his hands behind his head, mentally running over every weapon he has available in the room, from the metal vessels to the mundane blades. “I’m afraid we haven’t had time to rebuild the defenses yet, so if you’re looking for shields to wreck, I’ll have to ask you to come back later.”

 

_He’s in my room. Ja’far is going to kill me._

 

Judal sniffs, and he steps into the room on unseen stairs before letting his feet actually touch the ground, a little shiver bringing him to fold his arms over his chest. "That shield wasn't even a pain in the ass, anyway. Why would I want to bother again with something like that?" A sigh, a tilt of his head, and it's only a stride or two that takes him to Sinbad's bed, a knee set upon it as he makes to lean close. "Hey, why don't we talk before I take off? It's a lot easier in private to say what needs to be said."

 

Fleetingly, Sinbad remembers that he made Ja’far some promises, something about his probable behavior if Judal were to show up again. But in his defense, neither of them had expected him to show up so _soon_.

 

That makes a difference, surely. For some reason.

 

Sinbad doesn’t lean up, but he doesn’t push the boy away either, dark eyes following every sinuous motion. “Is this the sort of talking where I wake up to find the place crawling with Al-Sarmen afterwards?”

 

"Depends." A corner of Judal's mouth twitches up, and the heavy weight of his hair slides over his shoulder as he invites himself entirely onto the bed, the warm covers and the heat of Sinbad's own body too much to resist when he's already so chilled. "Are you going to just sic your pet snake on me if I don't talk about things you want to hear?" he purrs, eyes lidded as his forehead butts against Sinbad's shoulder. "Or are you just going to keep being rude overall, and not _invite me_ underneath the sheets? I already told you I'm cold."

 

Ja’far is smart, sure. But he’s never seen Judal like this, with the claws retracted, shivering a little from the cold and just begging for a warm surface to curl up against. For a moment, it’s not the ruins of the city Judal had left him hours earlier that he sees, but a cold night in the desert, the sharp lines of Judal’s face softened by youth, his eyes heavy-lidded. 

 

With a twitch of his arm, Sinbad pulls the coverlet over both of them, rolling to pin Judal under the weight of his body. He nuzzles down into that thick hair, his heart thudding hard in a way that only Judal can draw out of him, murmuring, “I’m listening.”

 

This is even better than just being under some dumb sheets. Judal stretches languidly underneath that weight, his hands lifting to drag absently down Sinbad's back as dull claws. "Better," he approves with a little sigh, a content wriggle down into the mattress following his words, no matter the spread of his legs that cradles Sinbad's hips between his thighs. "Hmm, you know… I thought about it, and I don't _really_ want to kill you. Kouen would, though," he breathes into Sinbad's ear. "The moment I show up and tell him that I declared war against Sindria… he'd start thinking about how good you'd look dead."

 

Like this, curled up against each other, the heat of their bodies burning away the night’s chill, it feels more like Judal is his lover than his enemy. And that, of course, is the great danger of giving Judal an inch.

 

Whatever. Sinbad likes danger. It’s at least different from the machinations of politics, day after day. “Oh? What if I don’t want to fight the Kou Empire?” He shivers a little under Judal’s hands, his arms coming around, one threading through the loose strands of hair around the younger man’s face, the other sliding down across his lower back. “If I just fought your precious Kouen,” he murmurs, burying his face in Judal’s neck, “and you were to bet your life on one of us…”

 

"I thought you _liked_ a good fight," Judal murmurs, eyes lidding as he tilts his head back, a hand reaching up to undo the clasp of the heavy jewelry around his neck, baring his throat entirely to Sinbad with an eager little arch against him. "'Precious Kouen' my ass…" His head butts against Sinbad's hand, and turns to press his lips to the man's wrist. "I've asked you repeatedly now to be mine--how stupid can you be, thinking you'd still be my second choice?" 

 

“I like my own fights. I don’t like having them chosen for me.” Now given the room, Sinbad nips the soft, hidden skin of Judal’s neck, inhaling deeply, his cock hardening at the scent. Maybe it’s his penchant for danger, or maybe Judal really does smell amazing, exotic eastern spices and starlight and war, sweet and tangy and all kinds of unsafe. “You didn’t answer me. Who do you think would win, of the two of us?”

 

Judal rumbles, stretching like some great cat, the upward squirm of his hips that much more eager as he feels Sinbad harden against him. "Dunno," he admits as his head rolls back, his hands splaying over Sinbad's shoulders, plucking at the strands of his hair to wind them about his fingers. "If it were a contest on numbers… you've more Djinn, obviously. But the ones he has are strong… handpicked dungeons that I summoned, and he doesn't _need_ seven to match you." He laughs breathlessly. "It's a fight I want to watch." 

 

“You haven’t seen all of my Djinn either,” Sinbad rumbles, wondering why the hell he feels the urge to get into a pissing contest with an absent man, and why the idea of that match makes him so eager. It’s been so long since there’s been anyone who could hold his own--and not like Judal, a creature more divine than human, with all the rukh in the world at his command, but another _man_. Sinbad can feel his blood racing at the thought, even as he hooks his arms under Judal’s knees, hoisting his legs up. “Not all of mine came from your dungeons, either.”

 

"That's true," is the sinuous little purr to follow, and god, his breath already sharpens, teeth briefly nibbling into his own lower lip as Judal wriggles in an attempt to scoot down and grind the curve of his ass against Sinbad's cock. "It would be a good show, then--I want to watch you _kill him._ " The words shouldn't come so eagerly, not when talking about the first prince of the empire he himself boasts so heavily of, but to hell with it. The idea is too satisfying not to vocalize. 

 

The breath leaves Sinbad’s lungs in a huff, his eyes darkening as he pulls back, looks down into Judal’s. “It would be a hell of a fight,” he murmurs, close enough to feel Judal’s breath on his face. “Maybe I’d give you his body as a trophy.” 

 

It’s been years since he’s felt wild like this, unhinged like this, like he does when his arms are full of a squirming mess of insanity and power. For a moment, it’s easy to remember why he’d run in the first place, the taste of freedom and sea winds on his tongue, with nothing but a hostile world full of enemies in his way. Everything had been a prize, just waiting to be claimed, and he’d rejoiced in the thrill of it. 

 

Maybe Judal is the last untamed thing left, after all.

 

Judal licks at his lips, his hunger palpable as he yanks at Sinbad's hair, dragging him back down to better bury his face in his neck, to nibble and suck and bite his way along that strong jawline. "So _do it_ already," he breathes, a needy whine present all the more in his voice, especially when he wriggles, trying to reach down to grab for the other man's cock. "Kill him, prove that you're stronger, and let me _have you_." 

 

“Don’t rush it. The wondering is the best part.” Sinbad shifts his weight down, pressing Judal all the more down into the mattress, his hands going to the younger man’s hips. “Take it from someone who’s conquered too many challenges too soon. I--” He breaks off, an amused little smile creasing his lips as his fingers touch around Judal’s back, his thumbs in the front. “You need to eat more.”

 

At that, Judal groans, hisses rather like a cat as he deliberately bucks a bit within Sinbad's grasp. "I eat just fine. And I've _waited_ long enough! Kouen's good, and he _likes_ war--that's fun and all, but he doesn't want to play. Not like you do." He huffs, his eyes dark as he looks up through the heavy fall of his lashes. "If you want another challenge, _play with me._ " 

 

“ _When are you going to stop humoring him?_ ” Ja’far had asked, angry and trying to hide it. Sinbad remembers the promises on his own lips, and brushes them away with the touch of Judal’s skin instead, as heady as spiced wine. Surely there are better bedmates, ones that he can trust, ones that don’t necessarily want to kill him--but he’d be lying if he didn’t confess some excitement in the thought.

 

 _Sorry, old friend. I’m too forgetful for my own good._ “You want to play?” he asks, biting, tugging on Judal’s bottom lip. “I know a game or two. Spread your legs, Judal.”

 

It would be a lie to be anything else than eager, wanting to the point of shakiness as he does as he's told--fast enough, and minus any hesitation that it might even be construed as _obedience_. "Is it the fact," Judal begins on a hot exhale, mirth in his voice, as he lurches up to nip at Sinbad's lips in turn, "that I keep calling you _mine?_ If it bothers you, I'll be _yours_. This country's Magi. If you think you're strong now, can't you just _imagine_ \--"

 

Oh, he can. Sinbad can imagine, and does, and sometimes just the thought of what it would be like to have that kind of power at his command makes him find the nearest girl and have her against the wall. For a second, considerations of Al-Sarmen fade away, with the thought of what he’d never wanted to be, and the way he’d always dreamed of his country being run; the darkness in him, the part that craves power for its own sake, rather than the good he could do with it, makes him hungry, eyes sharp and dark, his hips lurching forward to grind hard against Judal’s. “My Magi,” he breathes, his cock rubbing slick and hard against Judal’s, then sliding down, the tip just catching on his hole. “At my beck and call, all _mine_ …”

 

The groan that escapes from his lips is _frantic_ , desperate with the combination of those words, the hot press of Sinbad's body above him, and god, the teasing press of the man's cock _alone_ could drive him mad. His thighs splay themselves wider still, teeth biting into his own lip to muffle a needy whine, all as he mindlessly wriggles himself down, sighing out through his nose at the almost-press of Sinbad's cock inside of him, shuddering at the knowledge of how _good_ it will feel, stretching him so wide. " _Please_." Oh, and Judal knows how to make that sound pretty--a little high and breathless and weak, as if he'll wilt without Sinbad's cock inside of him. "Fuck me, let me feel what it's like to be yours--" 

 

For a moment, Sinbad forgets himself, the way he does when he tries futilely to grope at a nonexistent chest, and pushes in, his cock aching and dripping with the need to be _inside_ , only remembering a second later with a wince that he’s fucking a _man_ , not a sweet, slick young girl. He reaches blindly over to the bedside table, the head of his cock spreading Judal wide as he slicks the shaft, resuming the long, slow stretch of Judal around him.

 

Judal is a tight little thing, but he’s not as small as Ja’far, nor as tightly-strung, and most importantly, he _likes_ when it hurts. Sinbad’s fucked him black and blue enough times to know that by now. With Judal, Sinbad has urges he doesn’t have with the others, to lean  over him, to hold him down, to slam his hips up hard and make the boy _scream_.

 

Judal _already_ wants to scream, never mind that the breath is stolen from his lungs, that for a moment as he can do is gasp and gulp and swallow hard, his hands shaking as they grasp at Sinbad's arms and _cling._ His legs shake as he plants his heels into the bed, toes curling with the ragged moan that leaves his tongue as he arches himself up, panting, squirming as he wriggles his way down onto Sinbad's cock, all the while trying to crane his head to _see_ , wanting to watch the obscene stretch of his body as he _works_ to take every inch of the man fucking him. 

 

It's never quite the same unless it's Sinbad fucking him, never quite the same heady rush of power that makes him dizzy and pliant, and _that's_ how he knows Sinbad would be the winner of a fight even on a bad day. _Just let me have you, let me choose you, please, please, please, why don't you want_ me--

 

The thoughts are too distracting, too sobering when all he wants to do is be fucked until he can't _see_ , and so Judal sinks down into the bed with a shaky exhale, eyes squeezing shut.

 

Sinbad’s shoulders bunch, the power rising in him as he takes the boy, stuffing him full with every brutal thrust, getting off as much on Judal’s cries and shudders as he does on the slick tight heat surrounding him. The air around them _sings_ , the rukh pulsing and swelling, and it’s enough to make Sinbad’s breath catch, to drive him in harder every time. 

 

“You want to see?” he asks, panting with the force of their coupling, hauling Judal’s hips up until he’s bent nearly double, slowing each slick slide so that Judal can _watch_ the press of his thick cock deep inside, the obscene way Judal’s body swallows him, clenching and shivering and _hungry_. “Look how well you take it all.”

 

 _It_ should _be like this,_ he thinks, almost with a snarl. _It should be you by my side, not at their beck and call. Look what we are together, think what we could be, if you weren’t someone else’s dog._

 

The next catch and sob of his voice hiccups, his squeaks and breathless keens breaking when Sinbad shoves in deeper still, and it's even _better_ being able to watch the way that thick cock sinks into him, leaving him flushed and writhing, every muscle tight and bunching and wanting that much more as his own cock throbs and aches, untouched and yet still leaking over his stomach.

 

It's thoughtless how Judal reaches a shaky hand, drags slender fingers over every inch of Sinbad's cock that pulls out from him, teeth sinking into his lower lip when it sinks back into him and Judal _trembles_ when it presses in so deeply, so perfectly that all he can do is gulp air and shudder, wriggling and desperate to feel more, to work himself on Sinbad and have _all of him._  

 

God, why couldn't having everything _else_ be this easy?

 

“You look good like this,” Sinbad breathes, his eyes alight as he thrusts into Judal’s hand, Judal’s body, making sure he gets every last inch inside him with each deep thrust. “Like you were made for me to do this.” 

 

If only he could take Judal’s mind as easily as his body, sway his thoughts as easily as he can drive him into a frenzy, make him _understand_ as easily as he can make him _feel_. 

 

For now, he’ll have to be content with sinking his teeth into Judal’s shoulder, unable to resist leaning up for a hard, fierce kiss, his pulse beating in rapid time, every sweet-slick slide driving him closer to a surrender he never feels with anyone else, knowing deep in his heart that Judal could have a knife in his hand even now, could simply cut off his breath when he loses himself, and his cock swells harder with the thought, his teeth drawing blood.

 

He's lost, so ridiculously, agonizingly lost, his world centered around how damnably _good_ it feels to have Sinbad shoving him into the mattress, fucking him like he _owns him_ , and the chill previously in his bones is gone with the heated press of that _power_ around him, from Sinbad's hands to his lips to every other bit of strength that Judal can feel as well as _see_. 

 

Not that he can see much with how his vision blurs and sparks, wet from involuntary, overstimulated tears, and he sobs as he loses himself, clawing into Sinbad's back and shoulders, raking his nails down his spine as he spills over his stomach with a ragged, desperate shriek, his hips twisting and grinding down to take _more_ even as he comes, _needing_ that sensation to never end. "N-no one," he pants out unthinkingly, voice as used and broken as the rest of him, "no one--fucks me like you do--"

 

It’s not enough for Judal to say it. It’s good to get him to this point, but Sinbad needs more, needs the boy to not only know it, but feel it, driven home past the point where it just feels good, so far that he won’t know what he’s feeling anymore. Sinbad’s known that since the first night, and his sobbing, breathless cries in the desert.

 

And so he uses Judal long past his completion, hips rolling hard, his cock stuffing the boy full over and over again, rocking down into him as he sucks, bites, caresses, covers every bit of Judal with himself. 

 

Maybe part of him just wants to hear Judal beg him to stop. Maybe he just wants to hear the boy cry. Or maybe they both need this, past their limits, past their desires, into creatures of pure carnal _want_ , growing more frantic with every motion. “You still want this,” Sinbad hisses, not even sure if it’s a question or not. “Even now, you still want me.”

 

Judal feels himself nod more so than he wills it, _everything_ aching, trembling, _hurting_ , and there's no part of him that wants it to _stop._ Never mind that he can't catch his breath, that his voice is reduced to broken, mindless noises rather than any real words, that tears streak his flushed face and there's no part of him that can _relax_ , no matter how he wants to melt into the bed and surrender entirely. "Use me," he heatedly rasps, his head tossing back with a groan. "Already told you--I'm yours--"

 

The cruelest thing Sinbad can do is take his time, and he does. Every slide into Judal’s body is a slow, heated burn, the friction between them too much even with the lubrication. His cock is painfully hard, his eyes almost crossing at the effort of not just slamming in as hard as he can, but he takes a deep breath, knowing that whatever he’s feeling, Judal’s got it worse. His hands come to spread Judal’s legs as far apart as they’ll go, one of them sliding up, his fingers brushing over the hot drag of his cock’s slow motion. “Can you take it?” he asks breathlessly, dark eyes locked on Judal’s as a fingertip nudges its way inside. “Everything I give you and more?”

 

His body shudders in outright protest, no matter how his legs try to splay wider, his back arches as much as he can still manage, and a whimper bubbles from his throat. Even that much more is _too much_ , but Judal still finds himself nodding, never mind that his voice is too far gone for him to utter anything more than " _Please_." 

 

A finger, and a second, worm their way inside the tight heat of Judal’s body, stretching him even wider around his cock, and Sinbad can’t bite back the look of feral glee on his face at the way Judal shudders beneath him. Maybe there’s a bit of vengeance there for the men and women injured, for the parts of the city destroyed, but more than that, there’s _pleasure_ , in everything he takes from Judal’s body. “Good,” he breathes, his free hand sliding up Judal’s abdomen, his chest, to rest lightly on his neck. His thrusts pick up speed, fingers lightly stroking, touching, thumb dragging against the rapid beating of Judal’s pulse.

 

Judal swallows hard beneath Sinbad's hand, slumping down into the bed as little more than a quivering, useless _mess_ \--and liking it that way. Everything is hazy, everything far and beyond more than he can take, and that's the sort of thing that leaves him whimpering with each thrust into his body, every additional stretch of those fingers that leaves him twitching and his thighs shaking, leaving him without the strength to even lift his arms and stay clinging to Sinbad's neck. Instead, his fingers knead into the bedsheets, lips trembling as his mouth simply falls open, nothing _left_ for him to shriek or squeal about when he's so perfectly used. 

 

This, here-- _this_ is the Judal that Sinbad sees, that he’d bet one of his kingdoms no one else gets to see. This is the Judal that clings to him in the darkness, the one who can’t believe or understand what his body is feeling, who accepts a hand on his throat without question, who bucks and shudders under Sinbad’s touch even after the mad gleam has died from his eyes.

 

Sinbad leans down, pulling his hand free so he can scoop Judal up in his arms, holding him tight to his broad chest with every thrust, kissing those sweet lips, eyes sliding closed as he finally, _finally_ loses himself inside the younger man with an almighty shudder, his hands curling against Judal’s back, breath coming in short, eager shivers.

 

The spill of Sinbad inside of him, hot and slick and _filling him_ even more, lends another, hard shiver up his spine, all as he somehow finds the strength to burrow into the unrelenting strength of Sinbad's chest, arms as limp and useless as a doll's when he finally manages to drape them around the older man's neck and loop through his hair to stay in place. "… Bet you can kinda feel yourself inside me like this, huh?" he hoarsely whispers, biting his lip as he reaches to ease one of Sinbad's big hands further down his spine. "When you're this deep inside me, I don't wanna think about anything else." 

 

Sinbad bites off a groan. He _can_ , can feel the throb and heat and the slightest bulge of his cock through Judal’s back, and he slides the other hand around to Judal’s belly, pressing down low, biting his lip when he feels the squeeze deep inside the other man’s body. “Don’t,” he advises, voice low and hushed, more than content to forget about everything but the way Judal feels in his arms. He rests his forehead against Judal’s, breathing slowly returning to normal. “I won’t either. We’re best when we’re not thinking.”

 

"Wanna stay," is the petulant mumble to follow as Judal lightly nudges his head up against Sinbad's. Ugh, never mind that he _can't,_ even if he's sleepy and sated and Sinbad and his bed alike are too comfortable for this world. Why had he caused such a scene again earlier? He forgets. 

 

“Stay.” Dangerous, stupid, to say something like that to Judal. The Magi is too unbalanced, too prone to doing things that aren’t in _anyone’s_ best interests, too unpredictable…

 

But he feels so _good_ in Sinbad’s arms. 

 

Never mind the Kou Empire, Al-Sarmen, Ja’far. If Judal wants to stay, if he makes the choice himself, Sinbad will gladly go to war with them all.

 

Judal's lips curve, and he shuts his eyes as he sags back, sardonic amusement quickly slinking back into his voice. "You're not going to say _yes_ to my offer any time soon, though, are you?" 

 

Damn, but they’re back here again already. Sinbad sighs, gently lifting Judal off his cock and setting him down on the bed. “Just as soon as you leave Al-Sarman forever and swear yourself to me alone.”

 

Ah, now he's annoyed. He remembers why he tore apart that shield earlier and destroyed so many things-- _Sinbad_ , infuriating Sinbad that can never just give him what he wants, no questions asked. Kouen, at least, does that every time. "'Leave Al-Sarmen'…" Judal snorts, flopping onto his back and wiping a hand over his face, frowning as his fingers come away stained black. Come to think of it, Kouen doesn't make him bawl like a girl during sex either. "Why the hell does that even matter to you so much? You're not much better than them." 

 

“Did it ever occur to you that I just don’t like to share?”

 

 _Not much better than them, is it?_ Damn, he should have listened to Ja’far, should have thrown the brat off the balcony when he had a chance. “If you’re not even strong enough to leave them, what makes you think you’re strong enough to be my Magi?” There are a lot of things he’ll tolerate from the people who serve him--contrariness, and stubbornness, and madness, and addiction--those are things he can live with, he can _use_. Disloyalty, though...

 

Judal barks a laugh. "Not _strong enough?_ Don't be an idiot. The reason I don't want to cut ties isn't because I can't, but because it's stupid to throw all of that power away. Who do you think taught me?" he adds on a sneer. "If you don't want to share, then how about _you_ join up with Al-Sarmen? They like you, or so I've heard. Or maybe it's just the colors that your rukh is dyed these days that they're so fond of." 

 

It takes an effort of will not to lash out with a bit of his power, sending Judal crashing through the wall. Then again, it’s just as likely that the fucking bastard would block it, or somehow dodge, or that it would wash over him as if it had never been. 

 

That’s bad. It never used to take so much effort to keep calm, but the black rukh surges within him, as if awakening at the mere mention of it. 

 

Judal is an idiot if he thinks he’s staying with Al-Sarmen of his own free will, but honestly, Sinbad has known that for years. There’s no such thing as free will when it comes to Al-Sarmen, only the obedient and the ones they crush into obedience. He wonders, far behind those mad eyes, which one Judal really is.

 

Instead of lashing out, Sinbad flops back onto the bed, keeping relaxed by the barest margin. Threats would only provoke, and damn it, he’s left Ja’far in no fit state to be running to the source of any noise, not tonight. If there’s a fight, it’ll be a bloody one, in the center of his palace, and so he tries not to escalate anything. “I’m not much of a team player. Not big on following rules.” _Not big on trying to bring about the destruction of the world, you madman._

 

Damn it, but he expected more of a reaction than that.

 

Judal scowls, and with that, rolls himself over to flop atop of Sinbad, chin propped into his hands as he frowns down at him. "So be mine, and we can make new rules. We'd be so strong that they wouldn't have a choice but to listen."

 

It’s annoying, to have the weight of Judal on him when he’s given the brat every chance, given him a thousand chances more than that, and he’s still so damned _resistant_. He refrains from shoving him off, hurling him out the window, by a bare margin. At least Judal is _thinking_ now, instead of just parroting Al-Sarmen’s stupid lines. “You’re right about that. Together, I doubt anyone could stop us.” He runs a finger down the bridge of Judal’s nose, tapping the end of it. “We could take them down.”

 

Judal's head cocks, tipping up enough to catch Sinbad's finger between his teeth for a soft nip. "Taking them down entirely is stupid, though. Why not just keep using them instead?" 

 

God help them both, this is the closest they’ve ever come to a civil conversation on the subject. Maybe it’s easier if he keeps Judal distracted, and he finds himself wishing he had a feather or a bit of string. Instead, he picks up the end of Judal’s hair, brushing it across his collarbone. “Some tools are too dangerous to use. I have people to think of.” Easier--it had been easier when it was only himself. Back then, before he was a king, he’d never have hesitated to accept Judal’s offer. Then again, being that man had made him who he is now.

 

"… You're sure you're not just afraid?" is the bemused retort, and Judal flops down, his chin resting atop folded arms instead as he peers up at Sinbad. 

 

“If I were just afraid, would you have picked me as your candidate?” Sinbad kind of wishes he were drunk right now, and not just in the way that he usually wishes he were drunk whenever he isn’t. Something tells him Judal would be easier to deal with that way--the boy doesn’t respond well to logic, and his own is so flawed that it’s easy to see why. “Do you want a drink?”

 

"Sometimes, men are afraid of stupid things," Judal matter-of-factly replies. "I'm not, but well." He nose wrinkles a little bit. "Sindrian wine goes straight to my head, no thanks. You just want me drunk so I stop talking, Kouen does that. Annoying."

 

“I wanted _me_ drunk. I was being polite,” Sinbad mutters, wondering vaguely what Ja’far would say if he knew just how many bottles of wine Sinbad keeps under his bed. Then again, Ja’far probably does know. Hell, he probably makes sure they’re dusted weekly. He pops the cork out of one with the ease of long practice, neglecting to pour a glass since he’s the only one drinking anyway. “I’ve never seen you drunk. What does it do to you?”

 

"I dunno. I don't really remember it later when it happens." Judal snorts, rolling himself away with a toss of his hair that deliberately collides with the wine bottle in question. "I should've known not to bother. You're never going to accept my offer, are you?"

 

Sinbad sighs, catching the bottle easily and setting it aside. “Not unless something changes. Not as you are now.”

 

_And what a shame it is, because I can see what greatness we could achieve together._

 

It shouldn't hurt. Not in the least. 

 

Honestly, after all these years, he should be used to the rejection--repeated and annoying and predictable, ever since that first night of promises that Al-Sarmen promptly told him he took far, far too seriously. _Stupid, naive child._ They were right, of course, because with a glimpse at the _real_ tests of being a king, Sinbad was only angry and worse yet, subpar, and really, he could choose so much better.

 

So no, it shouldn't hurt. It should be _predictable._  

 

Judal snorts, grabbing for his clothes and willing away the tension that bunches his shoulders as he scrubs one handedly at his cheeks, rubbing away dried kohl in irritation. "Then you probably should stop being a lazy drunkard, and prepare for war. I've made my decision." 

 

It’s his last chance, and it’s more likely to get him murdered than to get an acquiescence, but the frustration at his own helplessness, at not being able to _deal_ with the Magi, is too strong. Sinbad grabs Judal by the shoulders, yanking him close, eyes urgent and sincere. “I don’t want to fight you. Be my ally! I’ll protect you from _anyone_ , just--”

 

Judal sneers, a hand lifting to shove at Sinbad's chest, sharply putting distance between the two of them. "Look at you, you _are_ afraid! I don't need your _protection_ , you idiot. And even if I needed it at all, I wouldn't seek it out from _you_. Only Al-Sarmen and the Kou Empire have ever proven _useful_ in that way, and even then, it was only when I was a _child_." He leans forward, eyes lidded. "Tell you what--if you want to protect me so badly, you can do it when I make you mine anyway. I bet you'll be one hell of a Black Djinn." 

 

Ja’far was right, of course. 

 

_Kill him, if you can._

 

It would be better for everyone. Better, probably, for Judal. Sinbad’s hand closes into a fist, the long metal ring he wears ready to flare to life, equipping a Djinn in seconds if he has to. “Get out,” he snarls, even as the uglier parts of him urge him on, whispering that he’ll never be safe, none of Sindria will ever be safe unless Judal is dead and buried. _I’ll burn to ashes and take all of Sindria with me before becoming that,_ he promises himself, something ugly giving it the weight of prophecy. “Go, and tell Kouen that as long as he harbors a madman like you, there will _never_ be peace between us!”

 

"Oh, you really are angry now! _Someone_ doesn't like rejection," Judal taunts, hopping off the bed with one easy, luxurious stretch as he finishes dressing in moments. "I'll tell Kouen, don't worry. He'll be happy," he cheerfully adds, a foot on the windowsill. "Like I've always told you, _he_ enjoys the game of war." 

 

The black rukh whispers to him. Judal would be better off dead. Sindria would be better off with Judal dead. Sinbad, and Ja’far, and the rest of his generals, and everyone who looks to him for protection, will be in danger if he lets Judal go. 

 

With a roar of frustration, he hurls the wine pitcher at the smirking apparition, snarling a curse. “Tell your chosen king to meet me on the battlefield! I’ll paint the sands with his blood!”

 

It's a sigh of the laziest sort that brings Judal to lift his wand, the wine and its pitcher shattering and splattering against the unseen wall about him uselessly. "Throwing a temper tantrum isn't very attractive either!" he brightly says, and with that, simply steps out of the window, legs loosely curled underneath himself as he hovers there for a last, lingering moment. "I'll tell him that, too--I can't _wait_ to see his face when he laughs in yours." And with that, he's gone--the flip of his hair the last glimpse of him as he disappears from the window's view.

 

Sinbad can’t even bring himself to be furious with the brat. Disappointed, sure. He’d thought that maybe, _maybe_ this time Judal would see, that he’d _understand_. God, it isn’t like he hasn’t given him enough chances, _more_ than enough, more than anyone else would have, probably ever, but Judal just…

 

Damn it, there’s _more_ to Judal than this, even _now_ he knows it, and it’s that wistful, angry frustration that leads him to drag out another bottle, uncorking it with his teeth and downing far too much of it in one go.

 

If it’s war, it’s war. There are smaller things to fight over than the will of a Magi, even one so wrong in the head as Judal.

 

"If he turns back around on a whim and you're drunk, I am not responsible for any and all actions I must take to properly protect our kingdom."

 

The words are a low, tired drawl from the doorway, now cracked open just enough that Ja'far leans against it wearily. _You should know better. You do know better._ There's no point in saying it, really. "Do you really think he will officially choose Kouen now?"

 

Sinbad kind of wants to throw another bottle out the window in the vague direction Judal had gone--towards Kou, of course towards Kou, always back to his _masters_ , god, it makes him sick--but it’s _good_ wine, no use tossing it after someone long gone. “Probably. Unless he changes his mind before he gets there, which I wouldn’t put past him.” 

 

Sinbad takes another long swig, dark clouds gathering over his head. “Go on. Say it. It’s not healthy to keep that much ‘I told you so’ behind your teeth.”

 

Ja'far's brows lift slightly, and he steps into the room--stiffly, mind--and shuts the door. "What I say depends on what you'd do if he did indeed change his mind and drew this out even longer."

 

Sometimes, Sinbad isn’t terribly impressed with himself. 

 

He takes a long, _long_ drink, imagining Judal flying back with that mad smirk--or with that lost, almost hopeful look in his eyes, teeth chattering from waiting outside in the cold for _hours_ , and really, what would be the harm if it prevented a war--

 

Another drink helps.

 

There's no helping the long, exasperated sigh to follow. "You should know better by now," Ja'far says because perhaps Sinbad _does_ need to hear it. He folds his arms within his robes. "It's a little frightening, honestly, how the two of you consistently act like jilted lovers. You need to stop and realize him for what he truly is, Sin."

 

“What is he?” Sinbad asks, almost dully. "Tell me." The wine takes some of the edge off, but not enough. Rarely is it ever enough. His mind is spinning with plans, with necessary fortifications, with favors he needs to call in, meetings he needs to hold, and all he wants is to see that damned insane smile at his window again, saying he’d changed his mind and of course he won’t choose someone stupid like Kouen, he’ll come back, he’ll ask again...

 

"A lost cause." There are probably kinder words to use, but in this circumstance, it's best to be cruel. "Stop planning for whatever perceived affection he has for you, and plan for his king's armies instead."

 

“His king,” Sinbad echoes. “You mean Kouen.” 

 

It’s easy to want to hate Ja’far right now. Not fair, but easy. It’s easy to tell himself that Ja’far has no idea what kind of affection Judal has for him, because that’s better than having to admit that Ja’far is probably right, and Judal could never have been any more than an enemy in waiting.

 

"Yes. I do." Ja'far heaves a sigh. "Let it _go_ , Sin," he quietly adds. "You gave him more chances over the years than any other man. In the end, it means he is far more foolish than you, for not accepting your generosity."

 

For a moment, just a moment, Sinbad lets himself remember Judal the way he’d been when they first met, excitable and curious and so convinced of his own importance. And then, for a moment, in his bed, shivering and clutching at him as if he were the boy’s last lifeline. 

 

The bottle is empty, and Sinbad lets it fall from his fingers. Before it hits the ground, he stands up, a broad smile on his face. “We’ll make an announcement, rile the people up for battle. Gather the generals, they’ll all need to hear about this. See if you can contact Aladdin--he’d be one one hell of a trump card, and if he knows his friends are in danger he might just be persuaded to come back. Get word to the sentries nearest the Kou empire, and whatever spies you already have in place. I don’t want the people frightened, all right? Evacuations, voluntary conscriptions only--let’s try and fight this with magic in the deserts whenever we can. Minimum loss of life, but whatever happens, we don’t surrender.” He claps Ja’far on the shoulder. “I won’t ask if you’re with me. I know you better than that by now, I think.”

 

Sinbad isn't quite drunk enough, if he's giving orders. 

 

Now is one of those times when it might be _better_ for him to be quite drunk, so he can sleep this off and think entirely clearly in the morning. Admittedly, he certainly seems to have a level head regarding it, but Ja'far doubts that will last. "… I will begin the preparations tonight, then," Ja'far allows, and a moment later, reaches for Sinbad's hand, gently but firmly pushing it from his shoulder. "And for once, I will tell you to go and rest."

 

That isn’t quite the response he’d been expecting, and Sinbad hesitates. It doesn’t _seem_ like Ja’far is angry at him for breaking his promise (and so soon), but it would make sense. For a normal person, that is. Not for someone as coolheaded as Ja’far. “I...I’d rather not rest. I’ll just turn it over and over again if I do.” Sinbad’s hands clench at his sides--surely, there was something he could have done. He should have just said yes, there would have been all the time in the world to convince Judal about Al-Sarmen if they could just face them _together_ \--with that much power, they’d have _anyone_ eating out of the palm of their hands in no time. Stupid, _stupid_ , and now he’ll choose Kouen as king, because Sinbad couldn’t stomach the idea of working with those monsters.

 

"And for what it's worth, I think your decisions were sound ones. But I doubt they will continue to be so if you are attempting to function without sleep and being otherwise quite drunk." Ja'far sighs up at him. "You can't dwell on the causes of a war, no matter how personal they may seem. In this case, it wasn't even about you, no matter how you think it was." 

 

“Half-drunk,” Sinbad corrects, then sighs. “I might as well get all drunk, and wait to see if Judal changes his mind or not.” He flops down on the bed, and damn it all, it still smells of Judal. He stands, stripping off the last bits of cloth that still cling to him, everything but his jewelry. “I’ll leave it to you for tonight, then. Have a bath drawn for me, would you? And--two or three of those bellydancing girls we saw last night.” He winces a bit as he stretches, the aftereffects in even his muscles starting to take its toll. “Tell them it’ll be easy pay for little work.”

 

Ja'far tries not to roll his eyes too much--after all, this is far more typical, _safer_ behavior for his king to be practicing, after all. "Yes, of course. I will see to all of it." It's with a bow of his head that he turns back toward the door, hoping, never mind the possibility of war, that Judal certainly won't turn around and change his mind this time.


	3. Chapter 3

If one isn't privy to the preparations of war, one might think Sindria is as peaceful as always.

 

Ja'far knows better, having put into practice the vast majority of Sinbad's plans, sent messengers as needed, and generally bit his nails off for the past week. It's never a matter of being anxious about their ability to accomplish something--more the act of getting it all _done_ with occasional _laziness_ to deal with, and that's more frustrating than anything else, leaving him to twitch and his anxiety to spike as he repeatedly feels the urge to kill another general or two (and Sinbad as well, for all the man's thoughts seem to be _elsewhere_ at times).

 

With that in mind, it shouldn't be a surprise that he's… a little high strung.

 

At least people know to avoid him. It's a good thing, because it isn't just his temper that flares when he swears he sees one very long tail of dark hair dangling from some ledge of the palace, and a moment later, a familiar _head_ to follow as Judal simply hovers there upside down for a moment, all before flipping himself over and dropping himself onto the balcony ledge. 

 

And he smiles, the arrogant little--

 

"Ahh, it's the small fry again! Where's Sinbad, I wanna talk to him."

 

Ja'far resigns himself to killing in broad daylight.

 

At the moment, the man in question is deep in discussion with Drakon about certain fortifications to the West, though his voice trails off as soon as he feels that almost obnoxiously familiar surge of power. Judal doesn’t even try to control it like the other Magi Sinbad’s met; if anything he flaunts it, though Sinbad can’t help but think it’s for the best. What his life would be like if there were no such thing as a warning, he doesn’t really want to know.

 

Sinbad lays a hand on Ja’far’s shoulder as he steps forward into the sunlight, facing Judal. His back is against the sun, and Sinbad has to squint up at him, the brightness of day still not enough to hide the glint of Judal’s eyes. “What do you want, Magi? Are you here alone?”

 

It's with a bored twirl that Judal's wand is stashed away again--a rather half-assed attempt made to pull it out in the first place, Ja'far angrily thinks, more annoyed than ever that the wretch thinks him so little of a threat. "'Magi'? Geez, that's formal. I was just passing through and figured I'd pay you a visit, I don't need an entourage for that." Leaping off of the railing's edge, Judal is within inches of Sinbad in less than a stride, and Ja'far tenses hard beneath Sinbad's restraining hand, no matter the instinctive urge to recoil. "I wanted to talk to you--without an audience, of course."

 

"No," Ja'far flatly cuts in, and Judal's gaze flickers sideways, his head cocking. 

 

"Your pets are noisy, Sinbad. I'd be a better one," he wheedles, eyelashes all but batting, "if you'd let me." 

 

Ja'far settles for staring. Dear god--was he _wrong?_ Did Judal _really_ not run home and choose Kouen?

 

Judal knows, probably, how hard it is to stay angry with him. It’s near impossible, because the brat is so damned changeable--no sooner has Sinbad formulated a hundred reasons to never have anything to do with him every again than Judal turns around and becomes someone totally different. The young man here now, half-smiling and his eyes dancing with mischief, is as different from the cruel man who’d sworn to cover all of Sindria in darkness as he is from Aladdin. 

 

Damn it, there’s still no way of telling. Judal could easily be lying--or could he? He’s hardly the best liar, given his rather...unremarkable gift for committing to something, or for being able to think up responses on the fly. Looking at him now, there’s something, some throb of power still searching for a host, that tells Sinbad unequivocally that Judal hasn’t chosen Kouen yet.

 

Well. Better keep it that way. As prepared as they are for war, avoiding it as long as possible is by far the better option, especially if it’s what Kouen wants.

 

He squeezes Ja’far’s shoulder in reassurance, letting go to step in front of him. “I hadn’t thought to see you again so soon. I thought you’d be too busy to come entertain yourself in my country.”

 

Judal blinks at him, attention shifting entirely Ja'far to Sinbad in an instant. "'So soon'?" He huffs, frowning. "What are you talking about, idiot? I haven't seen you in _forever._ I've been bored out of my mind." 

 

Judal is damned convincing when he wants to be. Maybe, Sinbad ventures to hope, he wants as badly for their last meeting to be unmade as Sinbad does, as surely all of Sindria and Kou will if things progress any further to preemptive strikes and retaliation.

 

_Sorry, Ja’far._

 

It’s with an almost helpless shrug at his chief advisor that Sinbad turns, beckoning with his head. “Come on, then. There are better places for us to speak.”

 

Judal spares Ja'far a smug grin--relishing how the advisor _twitches_ , at that--before all but bouncing after Sinbad, a single step taken before the rush of magic beneath his feet leaves him floating at Sinbad's side rather than walking. "Everyone here is so tense--even you. Who died?" 

 

 _What a damned show-off you are,_ Sinbad thinks, not entirely un-fondly. Hell, if he had so much Magoi that he could afford to float instead of walk, he might do the same. “Ah, we’ve had some information that the situation with Kou is growing more intense. But surely you would know more about that than we would, hm?”

 

"If that were the case, don't you think I'd be there, rather than here?" Judal sniffs, rolling his eyes. "Even Kouen is so boring lately. I don't know what information you've been hearing, but everyone is a stick in the mud as of late as far as I know." 

 

“Even you?” Really, he’s as willing as Judal to sweep everything under the rug, but this is getting ridiculous. Sugar coating aside, Judal simply isn’t smart enough to pull off a deception like this, which is enough to drive Sinbad sort of insane. “Nothing to keep you busy? I’d think Kouen would be happier to be chosen as your king finally.” _Come on, Judal, just let me know what I’m dealing with, this isn’t like you._

 

"… Your spies are really off base," Judal slowly says, brow furrowed in confusion no matter how amused his tone is. "As if I'd pick him without coming to ask you again first. Which, heh, I don't think Freckles would like it if you agreed, but that'd be part of the fun, I think."

 

All right, Judal _definitely_ isn’t this smart. So maybe the desert has messed with his mind; it’s not like he’s the most stable man on earth, and stranger things have happened out on the dunes.

 

Besides, it’s all to his advantage, so why not _use_ that?

 

Sinbad turns, not bothering to hide a smile that’s equal parts amusement and relief. “Ja’far’s never happy. It’s hardly worth baiting him.”

 

"It wouldn't be fun for long, anyway; too short of a fight," Judal sighs, hands laced at his lower back as he finally allows his feet to touch ground again, and then leans onto his tiptoes, smiling. "So? I just offered again, what's your answer?"

 

God, it would be a lie to say Sinbad isn’t tempted. There are few things that have ever tempted him more, including the entryway to every dungeon he’s ever conquered, and the ones that he’d only found out too late he’d never be allowed to take. It’s bad enough that he likes seeing that smile on Judal’s face when he’s not destroying anything, worse that he knows how good it would be, with the two of them--

 

The black rukh in his heart pulses, urging him on, wanting so badly to be set loose, to find a _mate_ in the Magi who feels the same, to be able to forge the country in that sleek dark image--

 

Sinbad swallows hard, hissing out a breath through his teeth. “Am I fallen enough for you, do you think?” he asks instead of answering, his eyes tracing over the thick jewelry at Judal’s neck, wanting so badly to replace it with something of _his_.

 

The curve of Judal's lips darkens, just slightly, and he lifts a hand, slender fingers placing themselves upon the arc of Sinbad's throat, tracing their way down to where his pulse thuds. "It doesn't matter. You're strong-- _all_ parts of you are, and that's what matters. That's the only thing I want: that strength." His eyes lid. "And I could make you even stronger, you know." 

 

“What would you do?” Safer, marginally, to talk about hypotheticals. Safer for Judal, that is. It’s dangerous as hell for Sinbad to remember why he’s so damned tempted, to think about what the two of them could _do_ together. He leans into the touch, eyes dark and intent. “With me as your king. Tell me how we would remake the world.”

 

Judal laughs, his arms simply slinging their way around Sinbad's shoulders as he leans forward, stretching up on tiptoe as he streamlines his body against the other man's. "You _like_ getting riled up hearing about it, don't you?" he purrs, head tilting to catch one earring between his teeth, a careful tug gently pulling on the hoop of it. "Wouldn't it be better just to agree already? Let me _show you_ \--actions are better than words."

 

A slow shiver goes through Sinbad, and he tightens his arms around the smaller man, hands splayed out on his back. Easy, so easy, to just say yes. 

 

But just because a gentle tug on his earring feels good, he reminds himself, doesn’t mean he wants the thing torn off in someone’s teeth.

 

“Are you telling me you can’t appreciate the value of a tease before the main event?” he says instead, raising an eyebrow. “I should tease you horribly for that.”

 

The younger man's lips twist immediately into a pout. "But I've been teasing long enough." The whine in his voice is unmistakable. "I'm asking _nicely_ , even. I could've come in and destroyed all the pretty little 'shields' your general has up around here, and I _didn't._ So maybe--" Judal wriggles closer, nails flexing into Sinbad's shoulders. "You should think about how _you_ want to shape the world--to bend it however you want beneath your hands--and how someone like _me_ can make it _that much easier._ "

 

So damned tempting.

 

Sure, Judal is a mess, but Sinbad is smart enough for the both of them, and beneath his hand they could have _anything_. There wouldn’t be any more worrying about which Empire would ever invade, no more threats from the ocean or the land, no more wondering if one of the countries is going to revolt--they wouldn’t be _able_ to. He could spread his empire, bring his own ideals to the surrounding lands, and hardly have to lift a finger. 

 

And, of course, he’d be keeping that bastard Kouen from getting it. 

 

_Maybe I could even destroy Al-Sarmen for good._

 

Tempting. So damn tempting.

 

“What would you do,” he murmurs, pulling the curtain to his room aside in invitation, “if I accepted? Would you stay here, or go flitting around until I needed you, raising dungeons for lesser men?”

 

"Do you want to put me on a leash?" Judal teases, untangling himself to draw away and slip into the room. He tosses himself back onto the bed with little effort, dragging his hair over one shoulder to pluck at the first tie at the very end of it. "I get bored, you know. You have to keep me entertained. The Kou Empire does a pretty good job of that, but lately… they keep handing you their princes and princesses, rolling over onto their backs and pretending to play nice. Really boring." 

 

“You would look good on a leash.” Despite the words, Sinbad’s hand is gentle--somewhat--when it comes up to Judal’s hair, his breath quickening; this is a rare treat, even to be able to wind his fingers through just one loosened section. Judal must really be in a good mood, if he’s willing to go to the trouble of putting his hair back up. He follows Judal down to the bed, one knee resting between the young man’s thighs. “You look better with me inside you.”

 

Judal slowly smirks, and his fingers snap the next tie in his hair, as if it's a _reward._ "If I look so good, then maybe you should make it happen, _Your Majesty_ ," he breathes, grabbing for a handful of draping cloth to drag Sinbad further onto the bed. "And better yet--let me make you _mine_ as much as you like making me _yours._ " 

 

For a second, mind muddled by lust, Sinbad thinks Judal means something entirely apart from making him a king--and then, since it’s a subject he’s less chary of, he pretends misunderstanding, all the while leaning down to place a soft bite on the end of Judal’s nose. “I doubt I’d look half so good stuffed full of cock as you do, _Magi_.”

 

"… Now you're just being dumb," Judal grumbles, wrinkling his nose as he lurches up a bit, giving a light shove at Sinbad's chest. "No one wants to see that, least of all me. Now roll over already; I'll sit in your lap and you can help me take my hair down properly." 

 

Sometimes, Judal has good ideas. 

 

Sinbad’s more than willing to do as he’s told now, rolling onto his back and reaching immediately for the heavy flow of Judal’s hair, a privilege he’s only been allowed once (twice? He’d been very drunk once and woken up quite tangled) before. It’s no ordinary braid, longer and fuller and thicker than any hair Sinbad’s ever had the luck to play with, and he relaxes back with a redolent grin, hands making quick work of the ties. One hand threads through the long strands, the other tracing down the young man’s abdomen. “I like it when you’re up there. These look nice.” _Not that you’re inordinately proud of them or anything._

 

Judal grins at the compliment, his knees planting themselves on either side of Sinbad's hips as he wriggles, shifting just _enough_ for it to be a reward. At least Sinbad isn't grabbing at his chest this time, expecting there to be things that certainly aren't there. "Of course they do," he sighs, leaning in to teeth the curve of Sinbad's ear, a rumble in his throat at the feel of the man's hands dragging through his hair. Normally, he doesn't like it--he spends too much time keeping it up to enjoy anyone _touching it_ , but Sinbad knows how to touch it, knows how to _pull it_ , and that goes straight to his cock as it always has, quickening his breath and making him grind down with an eager shiver. 

 

Judal knows just how to move, just how to wriggle around on top of him in a way that feels natural, is probably learned, but it feels good enough to make Sinbad forget about that. He hisses out a breath through his teeth, yanking on the loosened hairs the way Judal likes, just close enough to the scalp that it doesn’t _sting_ , with enough in a clump that none of it pulls out. Judal’s teeth on his ear just makes him hard, rolling his hips in a slow grind up against Judal, an easy, lazy motion that draws a low, pleased rumble from his chest. “Take off your jewelry. I want to see all of you.” _I want to have_ all _of you._

 

A hard swallow follows, and Judal fumbles to do as he's told--hands lifting first to the back of his neck, then to his wrists, and while he's at it, he might as well get out of all of his clothes, too, no matter the effort it takes to push Sinbad's hand from his hair to shed all of it. He's naked and squirming by the time he settles properly into  Sinbad's lap again, though, face nuzzling into Sinbad's neck and his hands pawing at cloth, an eager, breathy little whine leaving his throat as he feels the hard press and throb of Sinbad's cock against his hand. "Want you inside me." A shudder follows the words and his teeth nip hard into Sinbad's shoulder. "I can't stop thinking about it, you know--how it feels when you're fucking me--"

 

“Me too.” It’s a low, hushed confession, accompanied by the tightening of his hands, an urgent little thrust up against Judal’s body along with the words. This is better, a hundred times better than going to war, having the Magi wriggling on his lap instead of assaulting his armies, and if this is what it takes, Sinbad will gladly sacrifice his honor for the sake of the country. At least, that’s what he’ll tell his tight-lipped advisors later. For now, it’s all he can do to yank Judal down, burying his nose in the seductive fall of his hair, inhaling deeply. “Always thinking about fucking you.”

 

The words go straight to his cock, a shaky, hurried little moan following as Judal grinds down, _needing_ to feel the hard, thick press of Sinbad's cock against him. "I'd let _you_ put me on a leash," he frantically whispers, his fingers yanking at fabric and pulling Sinbad's cock free, and _sighs_ , hot and slow through his nose as he guides it to rub along the cleft of his ass, back arching, hips twitching back from the need to have the man inside of him. "E-even if it's just so I'm _full_ of you all the time--"

 

Sinbad’s eyes slide half-shut, a low hiss escaping between his teeth at the grind of Judal’s ass against his cock. Judal feels _good_ , always does, hot and tight and soft and eager, and his cock twitches with the urge to bury itself as deep as it can go. 

 

Sinbad reaches up, winding a lock of long hair around Judal’s throat, a loose, easy loop that he winds around the fingers of one hand. “So take what you want,” he murmurs, grinding up, rubbing deliberately as close as he can get. “Give us what we both want.”

 

Taking his hair down was a _good_ idea.

 

The urge to wriggle his way down Sinbad's cock right then and there is _strong_ , and he nearly does, never mind the repercussions. But he wants it to be good, wants it slick and perfect for both of them so Sinbad won't _stop_ , and so Judal takes the effort to reach out a hand, dipping into the pot of aloe at the bedside, and _shudders_ as he drags that slick hand down the length of Sinbad's cock, panting at the weight and thickness between his fingers and knowing how much better it always is inside of him. 

 

That's the extent of his patience, and he eases his hips up, biting his lip at the press of Sinbad against his hole. That initial press down, the head of Sinbad's cock spreading him so wide that he gasps and pants and trembles, is enough to also make Judal sob from relief, his body a quivering, clenching thing as he squirms his way down until their hips are flush, and he's so _full_ that he can't do anything but shake, sagging forward into Sinbad's chest with every hitching breath. 

 

Sinbad’s hand tightens almost involuntarily, yanking Judal down against his chest by the hair, gasping out a breath when it’s good, so _good_ inside Judal, hearing the boy sob at how full he is, seeing him quivering around his cock. “Good,” he grunts, tugging on his makeshift leash, eyes locked on the way it drags across Judal’s pale throat, skin paler than the rest of Judal’s body from being covered from the sun. Like this it’s almost _reins_ , and Sinbad bucks up into the tight heat of the boy’s body, yanking him down into every thrust. “Don’t hide your face,” he groans, one hand gripping Judal’s chin firmly, hauling it up. “I want to _see_ you loving my cock.”

 

"C-can't--" Judal huffs, hot and desperate as he lifts his face, eyes wet and lips trembling, skin flushing darker as he shoves himself down, hands clawing into Sinbad's chest as he _croons_ , his back arching into every slide down, inch by thick, tense inch. "Too much," he pants out, though god, if he sounds anything less than happy about it, it would be a lie. Judal whimpers, humping down eagerly into each thrust, the heavy fall of his hair swaying and sticking to sweat-slick skin, and his own cock dripping even if he has nothing more than Sinbad's stomach to grind against. 

 

Sinbad abandons his makeshift reins, all the better to tangle all ten fingers into the dark spill of that mass of hair, fingers curling and stroking and _yanking_ , all as he watches the slow rippling of Judal’s abdomen, feels him squeeze tight around his cock. “You can take it,” he breathes, eyes locked on the gulping, bobbing motion of that pale neck. “No one takes my cock like you.”

 

It’s true, even if he’s not entirely _comfortable_ with that fact, and he doubts certain others would be either.

 

He can't help but feel _proud_ about that, and Judal all the more eagerly works himself down, twitching, _tensing_ when he slides down just right and his breath is left to catch in his throat, strangling the broken keen that wants to escape. It's so good that it's nearly painful, especially with the tension that rakes over him and leaves him shaking atop Sinbad, with every touch, every tug of his hair going straight to his cock and fuck fuck _fuck_ he needs to let Sinbad yank on it more often like that--

 

"Let me do it all the time, then," he pants out before he gulps hard, eyes fluttering as another thrust presses so deeply that for a moment, he can't _breathe._ "I… _keep_ me--"

 

“God damn it, shut _up_ ,” Sinbad growls, lunging up to claim Judal’s lips in a hungry, fierce kiss, biting at his lips, one hand yanking still harder on that hair, the other sliding down to curl around Judal’s cock, thumb rubbing hard over the leaking tip. It’s harder to screw Judal into sobbing, near-unconsciousness in this position, but it has its perks, namely being so deep inside Judal he wants to pass out himself, jerking up hard so that Judal will feel every thrust. If his hands weren’t so busy--god he’s got perfect hair, Sinbad never wants to stop touching it--he’d grab his waist tight, see if he could feel his cock inside again.

 

Oh. Oh, _god_ , he's quiet now, save for muffled, mindless little moans and whimpers lost into Sinbad's mouth. His hips jerk helplessly into the other man's grasp, his eyes rolling back into his head as Sinbad repeatedly hits him _just right_ , and there's nothing else he can do but _squirm_ on top of Sinbad's cock--

 

Judal sobs as he comes, his hands clawing against Sinbad's chest, his own chest heaving as his body bows and--god, he's shaking so hard he can't even hold himself up, nor does he _want to_ when he can't think past how full of cock he is. 

 

Now Sinbad does let go, dropping his hands to Judal’s hips--it’s the least he can do, taking the movement onto himself, when the boy’s so utterly, thoroughly spent. “Good,” he breathes, and for once doesn’t try to hold out, hold himself back. He’s too rough, over the edge of ruthless as he slams Judal down onto his cock, savage and brutal, a low growl all that leaves his lips as he marks pale hips with bruises for later, slamming his cock in as deeply as he can get until he follows Judal’s spasming body over the edge, spilling hot and slick inside of him, _finally_ letting Judal sink down bonelessly against his chest. 

 

There’s a vague thought that he should apologize on his lips. He closes his eyes, saves that for later and for Ja’far, or for some girl he gets too rough with when he drinks. Judal can take it.

 

It's with a broken, useless little sound that Judal melts into Sinbad's chest, aching so pleasantly that he even opening his eyes is too much effort. "God," he moans out, face coming to bury itself back into Sinbad's neck, a far too content purr rumbling from his throat. "Why can't you do this all the _time._ "

 

 _Not yet, damn it, not yet, let me fucking breathe first, you little madman._ Sinbad’s hands come up to card gently through Judal’s hair, petting and detangling and holding all at once. “We’d never get anything done. I never want to move when I’m inside you.”

 

"Good," Judal happily breathes, wriggling himself down into Sinbad's chest in a way that could easily be construed as _snuggling._ "I can take over countries even like this, it's easy."

 

Sinbad starts to say something, but chuckles instead, the sound reverberating low through his chest. “I’ve taken over countries in worse ways. At least there’s no sand to pick out of your hair.”

 

"I'd probably kill you if there was." It's said so cheerfully that it might be a joke. _Might._ "We could take over _everything_ , you know."

 

“Probably,” Sinbad concedes. One hand threads close to Judal’s scalp, softly scratching, the other carding down through the long, loose strands of his hair. “How the hell do you get your hair like this, anyway?”

 

"I've never cut it," Judal proudly answers, a purr echoing from his lips as he nuzzles his head into Sinbad's hand. "Also, magic helps. It takes a long time to take care of it without it--and you're helping me get it all back together, it's your fault it's like this now."

 

“I don’t mind.” It’s almost a surprise to Sinbad himself that he really _doesn’t_ mind, that he can see himself quite happily brushing and detangling that pretty hair for hours on end. He’s got the time, after all--if they’re not going to war, there’s little that needs his immediate attention. “I’m surprised you don’t have an army of little slave girls using you like a maypole.”

 

"That'd be annoying. Kouha is bad enough." Judal sniffs, butting his head into Sinbad's shoulder as he worms his way against his chest. "You also mess up my makeup every damn time. You're really inconsiderate."

 

“It’s inconsiderate to fuck you until you’re crying?” Sinbad chuckles, shifting slightly to give Judal a better surface to lie on, their limbs tangled sinuously around each other. The soft touch of Judal’s skin free of those heavy ornaments, the whisper’s brush of his hair, the smell of him fragrant and spicy...maybe these are things worth going to war over. “Should I promise not to do it again?”

 

"Mmmn… No. Promise to fix it afterwards." Judal lets his eyes slide half-shut, exhaling a slow, content sigh. Sinbad's bed is _comfortable_ , perhaps a little too comfortable, and oh, it's easy to imagine his back hitting it day after day while others look on in _envy_ and empires fall around them… 

 

"Are you having a love affair with that _baby_ Magi, too?" is his low, amused drawl. "Is that why you won't join up with me?"

 

Sinbad has to snort at that, sending some hairs dancing in a huff. “The boychild who steals girls out from under me? I’m not at such a loss for bedmates yet that I’ll yank them off their mothers’ teats.” His hand comes up to brush away a smudge of mascara, soft over the ridge of a prominent cheekbone. “I’m less skilled with paint than with hair, but far be it from me to neglect to put right what I’ve ruined so thoroughly.”

 

"You're not answering," Judal languidly points out, head tipping into Sinbad's hand as his eyebrows arch. "Don't make me mad. I don't feel like dealing with your generals today, they make me itch sometimes."

 

Sinbad’s jaw clenches, and he leans his head back onto the pillows, sighing out a breath through his teeth. Judal feels _good_ on top of him, a gentle lithe pressure he’s loathe to sacrifice right now. “Can’t we just...stay like this for a while? Do you even remember what it’s like to be a man instead of just a Magi?”

 

Judal pauses at that, something akin to annoyance briefly flickering across his face before it's gone again and forgotten. "No. I don't. Why should I?" 

 

Odd. Sinbad had thought that would garner more of a reaction. Then again, if Judal is willing to let it go, he’s more than willing to do the same. “Because it would be a lot nicer to just taste your skin for a night without wondering when you’re going to start a war.”

 

"I like starting wars." It's rather petulant when it leaves his tongue, though he's _slightly_ mollified by the thought that Sinbad wants to keep him for the night. "Besides, you should be honored to have me in your bed--far better a Magi than just a _man_." 

 

“Never said I wasn’t honored.” Sinbad buries his face in the soft hairs that frame Judal’s face, nipping at the shell of an ear. “In fact, I’m pretty sure I asked you to stay.”

 

His head hurts suddenly, and Judal huffs, pressing his face flat into Sinbad's chest. Even if he hasn't been here in awhile, it _feels_ as if it were just yesterday. Too comfortable, for the bed of a king that refuses to even acknowledge him. "But you don't wanna keep me."

 

If he could, Sinbad would explain about the difference between wanting something and wanting to want something, and how the hunger for a thing he doesn’t want to want is enough to burn him alive. Instead, he presses a kiss to a bare shoulder, hands softly petting, never still. “You’re right that I wouldn’t find you half so interesting if you weren’t a Magi.”

 

Ugh, and he _does_ want to stay, but _that_ doesn't exactly make him feel _happy_ about it.

 

Sinbad's bed isn't just comfortable, it's pleasantly _warm_ , and Judal can't quite remember the last time he's felt like that, especially _snuggled_ up to another person. Kouha doesn't count, he's disgustingly clingy--Kougyoku is a stupid girl at best--and Kouen… 

 

"No one does." Ah, he's not bitter. Nope. Tired, maybe. He doesn't like feeling tired, not with the way his head throbs. "Forget it," Judal adds, grumbling as he rolls to the side into the puddle of his own hair. "I don't want to talk about it anymore."

 

It’s too soon to concede the day, too soon to let this fragile peace fade into the rigor and tension of their usual meetings, and Sinbad rolls over on top of Judal, burying his face in the other man’s neck and shoulder, holding him down with the weight of his body. He shouldn’t need to _say_ how Judal entrances him, draws him in without even trying--it should be enough that he’s here, with a madman who wants his country’s destruction, rather than with all the men and women who would gladly throw themselves at his feet, and do on almost every occasion. “Don’t talk, then. Just stay.”

 

"You're heavy." He doesn't sound too upset about it, all things considered. "We could get drunk," Judal idly suggests without lifting his head, never mind the niggling reminder that Sindrian wine doesn't really sit well with him--and also the odd sense of deja vu upon remembering that thought. Ah, whatever. For now, he's just going to blame really good sex on making his head spin.

 

That gives Sinbad a moment of pause, remembering not a week earlier when he’d suggested something similar. The rest of that night is something of a haze, given that, well, he’s never really needed anyone’s encouragement to do exactly that. “Nice not to be the one suggesting it,” he says with a grin, reaching under the bed and pulling out a bottle. He rolls off of Judal, giving him a slow, lingering kiss before opening it. This doesn’t seem like the kind of evening where they’ll bother over-much with glasses.

 

"Drunkard," is the lazy accusation, even as he reaches for the bottle with groping fingers. "So, be honest with me, _Sin_ ," Judal murmurs, taking a long drink from the wine bottle and lifting a hand afterwards to wipe away a trickle of wine that escapes down his chin. The fingers are promptly licked--or really, sucked clean. "How _attached_ to your pet advisor are you? You're kind of fastened at the hip, aren't you?"

 

Sinbad finds his eyes tracing the slow trickle of liquid down Judal's chin, the curve of his tongue flicking out against them, and it reminds him all too well just how _long_ it's been since he's felt that tongue on more than just his lips. He takes the bottle, the nagging sense that he wants to observe Judal drunk more than he wants to get drunk fading under the tug of the desire for wine, and a long swig banishes it for good. "He's very valuable to me," he says carefully, not entirely sure whether Judal's asking on his own behalf, or Al-Sarmen's. Who knows what information the might want? "Honestly I hadn't thought you'd taken much notice of him."

 

"He's always the one that looks like he wants to kill me the most, it's kind of hard not to notice him," Judal sniffs, rolling slowly to the side to snatch the bottle from Sinbad's hands again. "I bet you like him more than you like me," he decisively says, just shy of petulant. "And judging by the _faces_ he makes whenever I visit and we do things like this, I suppose he's quite _fond_ of you as well." 

 

More than just _wants_ to, Sinbad knows full well that Ja'far would take any opportunity to murder Judal, given the chance. Then again, the feeling is apparently quite mutual, and given the amount of property damage the younger man has caused, who can really blame him? "Why would you assume something like that?" he asks, amused. He stretches out lengthwise on the bed, running a hand down Judal's shoulder and arm before plucking the jug from his hand. "If anything, the fact that he's put out by me taking you to my bed should paint a very different picture."

 

"Like I said, it's the _faces_ he makes," Judal insists, frowning as the jug is pulled from his grasp again, and he lurches up after it, looking decidedly as if he _needs it._ "And I know he stands around waiting for me to leave. Really rude. Also, gimme, you're being stingy." 

 

Instead of handing the jug over, Sinbad tilts it gently, one hand behind Judal's head to steady him. "Easy, you're not as used to wine as I am. Don't think you have to keep up with me." 

 

God, it's hard not to just feel _fond_ of Judal when he's like this, squirming and clinging and needing, and Sinbad murmurs, "You're the one I find impossible to resist."

 

Judal pouts all for a moment until his lips part as he drinks, throat bobbing with each slow swallow. "Not trying to keep up," he sighs as he pulls back, licking at his lips now thoroughly stained from the wine. "I just like it. Also, you're lying. Before I curl up in your bed and make myself comfortable, you wish I'd leave, every time." 

 

Sinbad can't resist reaching out a hand, running the pad of his thumb over the dark red smears on the young man's lips, at the same time taking another, longer swig. "This from the man who tries to wriggle out the window every time as soon as I make him scream?"

 

"Because you never let me stay!" The pout is there for real now, jutting his lower lip before his tongue flicks out to swipe over Sinbad's thumb, then slowly sucking it into his mouth with a little sigh. "You're dumb," Judal then decides in a mumble, flopping backwards in the next movement and rolling to the side--a conscious decision or not is anyone's guess. "Ah, really dumb. At least invite me to stay, you never dooo." 

 

Sinbad huffs out a surprised little laugh, eyebrows raised at just how _quickly_ Judal transitioned from the terror of the night to most Sindarians to an overly-clumsy kitten, whining and pawing in his bed. Then again, whining and pawing is just about the least lethal thing he's ever seen Judal do. He hooks his fingers into Judal's waistband, tugging him close. "Stay, then," he says, tactfully neglecting to point out--or forgetting under influence of the wine--that he's already asked the same thing a dozen times, the most recent of which was maybe a quarter of an hour ago. 

 

A huff follows the batting away of Sinbad's hands, and with another, swift little roll, Judal slides straight off the bed onto the floor, a tangle of limbs and hair. "Nnnno. I bet--you don't love me like you love him."

 

The noise that leaves Sinbad's throat is somewhere between a cough and a bark, accompanied by a mist of wine. A surge of magic hits the spray in midair, whisking it out the window, even as Sinbad chokes, blinking rapidly as he tries to catch his breath "W-what? You can't just throw words around like that, you…"

 

"I bet it's _truuue_ though." Judal rolls himself back towards the bed, slowly clawing his way up to set his chin upon the edge of it and pout thoroughly up at the other man. "You don't love me like you love him. Just admit it."

 

 _Between the nagging advisor that never lets me have any fun and the mad magi who revels in trying to destroy my kingdom,_ Sinbad thinks uncharitably, stretching out just far enough to press a clumsy, messy kiss to the corner of Judal's mouth. "You shouldn't talk about things you don't know anything about. Ja'far is my friend and advisor, hardly my…" _Whatever the hell you are._

 

"Lover?" Judal prompts, lurching up to return the kiss with his fingers reaching for a handful of Sinbad's hair. "I could be," he insists, and it's with a wriggle upward that he manages to worm his way back onto the bed, no matter how uncoordinated. "I'm better than him, I bet. If I'm not, I could be, just tell me what you want." 

 

 _I want you to stop being Al-Sarmen's dog and be by my side,_ Sinbad very nearly says--but at best that would only piss Judal off, and at worse send him back out the window, this time without enough control of his magic to keep himself afloat. Instead, he rolls them over, pinning Judal to the bed and burying his face in the young man's neck, nibbling and sucking. The wine overtakes his sense of judgment, and he mutters, " _You're_ what I want."

 

A little purr rumbles from Judal's throat, and he arches beneath Sinbad's weight, _pleased_ in spite of all else at those words. "So _keep me_ ," he sighs out, squirming to free his arms and drape them around Sinbad, his fingers splaying along his spine. "Like I keep telling you to. I'll be yours, just as much as I want to make you mine."

 

Sometimes the only way to shut Judal up is to keep his mouth busy. As good as the skin below his jaw tastes, Sinbad moves to his lips instead, sliding a thigh between Judal's legs. He pauses just long enough to take a long drink, relishing the tingling buzz in his fingers, tipping a bit more into Judal's mouth before murmuring, "How long has it been since you tasted me, Judal?"

 

Judal shudders, a long, hard swallow downing most of the wine with another, messy trickle of it making its way down his chin. "Too long," he rasps, eyes lidding at the thought as his lips part, tongue swiping over his lower lip in anticipation. He squirms again, this with intent to slide up, flopping back into pillows that prop his head up as his fingers reach and grab for Sinbad. "Come up here," Judal breathes, looking up at him from beneath his lashes. "Use me--that's what you want, isn't it?" 

 

Sinbad's head spins for a moment, and he swallows hard, climbing over Judal to kneel on either side of his shoulders, edging his knees under the edge of the pillows as he leans up, brushing the tip of his cock against Judal's wine-red lips. He tangles his hands in Judal's hair, reveling in the softness of it as he presses forward, just a bit, just enough to let him taste. "Too long," he agrees, voice breathy and eager. "Have you gotten any better?"

 

A groan escapes, breathless and wanting, and Judal hungrily parts his lips further, sucking the tip of Sinbad's cock into his mouth with a desperate little sound. His tongue is a wet, wriggling thing as it drags over the head, licks Sinbad clean of what drips over his tongue, all before he draws back with a low, panting gasp of breath, a needy whimper following. "You make it sound as if I wasn't good before." It's less offended and more _eager_. "I bet… your advisor never does this." 

 

At the touch of Judal's tongue, Sinbad forgets why he's ever, ever not begged him to stay. At more, that wriggling, hot, wet pressure enveloping him, all he can do is groan, the wine making him less cautious, less reserved than he would normally be. He nods, cheeks flushing with heat, pulling hard on Judal's hair as he admits, "Never. Thinks it's dirty. Not like you." _You know it is, and you love it all the more for that, whore._

 

God, that makes Judal _proud_ more than anything else--that he can give Sinbad something that his stuffy, nagging little snake _can't_. His hands reach up, immediately grabbing for Sinbad's hips, dragging him forward as his eyes flutter, rolling into the back of his head as Sinbad's cock slides along his tongue, stretching his lips as it sinks down his throat. It's _always_ a little much for him, and Judal swallows hard, throat working, bobbing as he tries not to gag and fails, breathing hot, hard through his nose as he nevertheless takes Sinbad's cock down his throat until his nose nuzzles against a hard stomach and into thick hair at its base.

 

Sinbad doubts he can breathe any better than Judal. He's sure he _can't_ , not when Judal's tongue drives him mad with every swipe, makes him think awful dark thoughts about _chain him to the bed and keep him and never let him go back there and_ ** _keep_** _him_. "Good," he says, a strangled groan of a noise as his fingernails dig into Judal's scalp. "You like the taste, don't you?" Not that he lets him up. Not that he lets him _breathe._

 

Something like a whimper escapes as Judal nods as much as he's able, tongue working tirelessly as he slurps and sucks, hands clawing briefly against Sinbad's hips as his cock slides just _too_ far down his throat, making breath and thought and _everything_ far out of reach. He shudders hard, dragging himself back, a deliberate struggle against the hold in his hair, all to drag his tongue messily over the head of Sinbad's cock again, panting hot, heavy breaths as his head tips to nuzzle his cheek against it in a sticky, sloppy slide. "Want you to come on my face." It's little more than a whine, and a full-body shiver follows just the _thought_. "Please-- _please_ \--"

 

It's not something Sinbad expects to hear. He also doesn't expect the way the words shoot straight to his cock, his skin suddenly tight and hot, and he doesn't even have time to say _yes, god yes_ before he spills, trails of white painting Judal's face in sloppy lines. His hands tighten too much, then loosen deliberately as he lets his head fall back onto the bed with a groan, head swimming from the wine and feeling oddly put-out. "Can't just…you didn't even let me savor the idea. Not fair. You look too good like that."

 

Judal shudders hard, sinking down and looking decidedly satisfied with himself as he lifts a hand to his face, slowly wiping his fingers through the mess of it and bringing them to his lips to be licked clean. "If you let me stay," he sighs out, sucking his own fingers into his mouth, eyes shutting contently, "I'll do that for you whenever you _want._ " 

 

Sinbad nearly has to stifle a groan of protest at Judal's clean-up, until he sees that pink tongue flick out to lick his fingers clean, looking every inch debauched. "You," he says, ignoring Judal's offer, "look a hundred times more lewd than any dancing whore I've ever seen." He raises the jug of wine, tipping it towards Judal in supplication. 

 

"Good," is the immediate, unrepentant response, a last finger sliding free from his mouth with a slick pop before he lurches forward to grab at the wine jug. "I'd dance for you, too," he purrs, looking up at Sinbad through his lashes. 

 

Sinbad stretches out, ignoring the way his cock gives an immediate, if half-hearted, twitch at the thought of Judal dancing like one of the harem girls he's seen, swaying narrow hips and rolling his belly, smoky eyes half-closed in what looks more like pleasure than anything. "Should I fetch a musician? My sitar skills are rather substandard, but I would dearly love to…see you dance." More like he would dearly love to run his hands slowly over the wriggling flesh, but there are some things better left implications.

 

"Mmm… the problem is," Judal sighs, rolling onto his side in a content splay, "I'd prefer to reserve that skill for whoever actually wants to keep me. And you won't accept my offer, plus you like that snake of yours a lot-- _a lot_ more…"

 

It takes skill, and talent, and determination to bite his tongue on a protest, but Sinbad does. He feigns disinterest with all the control he can tipsily muster, grabbing the jug back and taking a long swig. "Fine," he says, shrugging one shoulder. "If you're so reserved, maybe Ja'far will dance for me."

 

It's a good thing he isn't drinking wine, because it certainly would have been spat out. " _Please_ \--as if that stick in the mud would, but do you _really_ wanna see him dance anyway? He's not as pretty as me."

 

Another drink helps, even if Sinbad snorts a bit through it. It's true that he can't imagine Ja'far doing some of the dances he's paid soft-bodied girls for, but… "You've never seen him really move, though. I mean, you _might_ be better, but there's really no telling." He rolls over, propping his head up on both his hands. "You'd make a good bellydancer. You have the hips."

 

"Oh, I know," Judal sighs indulgently, rolling onto his belly with a stretch that arches his back. " _Kouen_ tells me I'm one of the better ones he's seen. There'd be no contest." 

 

Sinbad reaches out a hand, dragging it slowly down Judal's spine, down to the curve of his ass, then back up to rest on the dip of his lower back. "And do you thought--think--did you think your Kouen has seen half as many dancers as I have?"

 

"He's seen a lot!" Judal huffs, wriggling his way down into the sheets with a pout tossed over his shoulder. "See, this is what I mean. You love him a lot more than you love me, it's _obvious._ "

 

It's _hot_ in this room, the kind of hot Sinbad traditionally associates with the need to lose his clothing as soon as possible. He reaches down, but encounters nothing but his own skin. Oh. Right. Irritably, he pulls out the tie in his hair, muttering something about clothing being a conspiracy probably sent from the Kou Empire. "You keep throw around that word. You…do you even…what do you think that even is?"

 

The pout deepens, even as Judal rolls his way across the bed, shimmying up to curl against Sinbad's side. "I know what it is! It's… you two make those _faces_ at one another, that's how I _know._ "

 

A slow roll is enough for Sinbad to roll over, curling his arms and legs around Judal's form, suddenly very, very intent that Judal know certain things. "You're…wrong. That's what you are. You're…no. No faces. I make faces at you."

 

" _Liar_ ," Judal insists, burying his way into Sinbad's chest with a little wriggle as he reaches up to grab handfuls of the other man's hair. "You don't. _You're_ no faces. And really dumb." 

 

Sinbad lets out a low purr, attempting to grab Judal's hair, but despite it being _everywhere,_ when he wants it, it's nowhere to be found. He contents himself instead with grabbing handfuls of Judal's ass, softly biting his ear. Or his cheek. "Not as dumb as Kouen. He's _really_ dumb if he lets you faces at me."

 

In spite of having his face nibbled upon, Judal still seems quite content, and squirms his way into a ball against Sinbad's chest, nuzzling his way into his neck. "I don't make faces at him," Judal sighs out, eyes lidding as the alcohol gradually starts to make him feel _sleepy_. Contently sleepy, and very, very pleasantly warm, at that. "Just at you."

 

"Hey." Sinbad bats at Judal's face, petting at his hair, mostly wiping his hands across the other man's eyes and forehead. "Hey. If you fall asleep in my bed can I keep you?" Probably a bad idea, and the Ja'far-shaped shadow in the corner is glaring at him, but Judal is _soft._

 

"I've been trying to make you keep me this whole _time_ ," Judal sleepily whines, butting his face into Sinbad's hands. "I'm not going anywhere, I'm staying. You and your bed are good."

 

"Good." That's most of the thought process Sinbad has left, and he devolves into little crooning noises, making a vaguely halfhearted attempt to throw a leg over Judal's hips. "I'll just…sleep in your bed then."

 

"You're heavy," is the sort-of complaint to follow, even as Judal sighs and sinks down into the sheets. "Okay. I'll be your bed." 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Ja’far is a good servant.

That being said, he has his particular quirks, and Sinbad respects them, to a degree. He respects that Ja’far only wants to get on his back once or twice a year--it doesn’t stop him from trying more often, but he lets Ja’far tell him no. He respects that Ja’far gets panicky whenever Sinbad messes up his scrolls--it doesn’t stop him from doing it, but he accepts the whack on the head he gets in return.

And in general, he respects that Ja’far doesn’t touch alcohol. He doesn’t understand it (alcohol is delicious) but he respects it.

Which is why Ja’far should understand why today is so important. 

“This is a delegation from Sartrua,” he explains out of the corner of his mouth. “The grapes only come to fruition once every seven years, and they say the wine is thicker and sweeter than any in the world. It’s a great honor they do us by sharing it, so if they present you a glass, drink it all.” There’s no doubt that it’s an order. All that’s left is to see whether Ja’far listens to it.

Ja'far sort of wants to hit him--in broad daylight, in public, and in front of the damned delegation.

He refrains, of course. If Sinbad is a study in total lack of impulse control, Ja'far is the opposite no matter how annoyed he finds himself at times. And ah, he's very, very annoyed tonight, after listening to Sinbad pander to one very obnoxious Magi for several days straight, and now, to be dragged out and into all of this--

All in all, he'd rather be working. Or even attempting to catch up on sleep, for all that he's lost stressing over whether or not Judal will remember that he hated Sinbad five minutes ago and therefore tries to kill the king in his sleep.

Instead, stuck at another party, trying to slowly sip his wine--because of course, he was presented with a glass, what else would happen but that when he honestly hates wine?--Ja'far tries not to look too put out. He tries not to let the stuff go to his head, either, though it's difficult when it's strong enough to make his vision start swimming half-way through. He's going to have a headache. First and foremost, he might beat Sinbad up--or maybe, just for now, he'll sit quietly and think of the possibility of Sinbad not endangering himself by playing with that Magi day in and day out.

The more Ja’far’s cheeks flush, the more Sinbad finds himself distracted from the delegation, his eyes wandering towards his advisor and his slightly reddened cheeks, the lazy curling of his hands, the way he clenches his jaw in an attempt to show not a hint of drunkenness. It’s sort of adorable, watching him attempt to circumvent the alcohol like a boy having his first glass of wine, insisting that he’s fine even as he sprawls facedown in someone else’s cabbages.

And if it distracts Sinbad from wondering how it’s possible to miss someone like a hole in his belly and yet want them to stay as far away as they can for the rest of eternity, well, that’s probably all for the better. 

He leans over, not too close to draw attention, and asks, “Do I need to make your excuses? Or can you walk by yourself?”

The desire to glower is long past, replaced more by a sort of sleepy sense of pliancy that makes him blink, slow and measured, up at the other man. Ah, this is why he hates drinking most of all--the fact that it makes him less likely to think, and really, if he isn't thinking things through, then what is Sinbad doing--

"I can walk," Ja'far mumbles, frowning a little at the insinuation that he's that much of an invalid when drunk. "I just… have a headache."

Obstinate, and ornery, and above all a bit cute. Sinbad knows he should be a little less charmed by it all, but there’s something so refreshing about seeing Ja’far’s normal cool composure fading into something infinitely more agreeable.

It makes him want to see more. Probably not safe, but true nonetheless. 

“Glad to hear you’re doing well,” he says, a bit overly bright. “Just the last glass, then.” He pours them each another glass, dripping out the last remnants of the jug with a smile and bow to their hosts. Yes, Ja’far is nicely distracting like this indeed. Maybe it’ll even keep his mind off the way Judal gets jealous and affectionate when he’s drunk, curling up in all his hair on Sinbad’s lap like a giant kitten.

Ja'far is going to kill him. 

Moreover, he considers killing everyone in this delegation for having wine like this. It's the worst sort, and ugh, he's just glad he can drink it slowly so avoid being entirely nauseous, though that seems to make it stick all the more and make him drunker by the minute… 

He tries not to sag in his seat and tries not to slowly lean to the side on top of that. Eventually, Ja'far is certain he'd come in contact with the floor or worse, Sinbad's lap, and ah, explaining either of those things in front of foreign dignitaries would be unpleasant. 

As enjoyable as seeing Ja’far slowly drink himself into oblivion is, Sinbad hasn’t gotten to where he is in life without recognizing the signs of impending murder in a former assassin. He stands, thanking the delegation profusely as he’d been instructed by a formerly sober Ja’far, and makes their excuses, hauling the smaller man up and doing his best not to look like he’s half-carrying him. 

As soon as they’re in the hall, Sinbad tugs his advisor down a side corridor, where no one is likely to see as he loops an arm around Ja’far’s waist, mostly holding him upright. “There, was that really so bad an evening?”

"Hate wine," is the mumble to follow, and that's definitely a stumble when he takes a step forward, no matter how he's practically draping himself against Sinbad's side at this point. He wants to sleep. Also, he wants to give Sinbad a swift kick to the head, but that idea is pleasantly stifled by the fuzziness of his mind, the thrumming of his own pulse and he's so overly warm that he contemplates stripping right then and there. "Why couldn't you just drink it. You drink it all the time… ah, I'm going to die," Ja'far adds hazily, grabbing at Sinbad's robes as he sways.

“I did drink it,” Sinbad points out, chuckling as he steadies Ja’far on his feet. “I’m just not a little slip of a thing like you, and I’m quite a bit more used to it.” Not really seeing another choice, he scoops Ja’far up into his arms, absconding with him to his bedroom. He’d like to use Ja’far’s instead, but it makes him sad, all that beige, all that black and white and sand-colored and boring. Besides, Judal’s probably not in his bed right now.

His world spins, and Ja'far finds himself clutching at Sinbad's shoulders, shutting his eyes with a slow, steadying breath. Any protests die on his lips, though, as he focuses on how nice it is to not have to walk right now when the ground is entirely unsteady and Sinbad is really quite warm, too. "You should've had mine, too. I… ugh, I hate wine. Never again, you drink it next time," he orders, eyes fluttering as he sleepily butts his head into Sinbad's shoulder. "You, though… I like you, Sin."

Sinbad vaguely thinks, not quite certain if he’s glad or somewhat terrified, that pretty much all the boys he likes going to bed with turn into big cuddly kittens when they’re drunk. That’s probably all for the best though, given how dangerous his chosen company tends to be, and he presses a kiss to Ja’far’s forehead, climbing the stairs two at a time. “Like you too. You look nice like this,” he adds, setting Ja’far down on the bed, cupping the side of his face in one broad hand. He runs the tip of his thumb over his advisor’s lips, breath catching slightly--firm, slightly chapped, as though he worries at them too often with his teeth. “Very nice.”

Any other time, and Ja'far would find himself terribly irritated.

Sinbad has this penchant for being unable to keep his hands off of people, and now is no exception. Normally, Ja'far would bite him, or at the very least, push his hand away and chide him for trying to take advantage of the inebriated--but he's just too drunk to think that far, and the touch sends little shivers down his spine all the same, no matter how slight it is… 

Instead, his lips part, eyes lidding as his teeth gently scrape against Sinbad's thumb, all before it's drawn into his mouth with a careful suck and drag of his tongue, breath exhaled from his nose in a rush as he glances languidly up through his lashes. 

For the first time, and rather abruptly, Sinbad has to question whether he’s a lot more affected by that damned wine than he’d thought. All the blood in his body rushes south, his cock rising swift and hard at every slow, sensuous curl of Ja’far’s tongue, at each soft, slightly sloppy scrape of his teeth, and god, it shouldn’t feel this good, his world shouldn’t narrow to exactly that point of contact. 

His breath is short and fast, and Sinbad’s eyes lid as he says, low and urgent, “You make me want to see something else in your mouth.”

A low groan rumbles within Ja'far's throat, and inhibitions be damned, he likes grabbing at Sinbad's wrist to hold it in place, likes sucking and nibbling at his thumb until it slides from his lips with a slick pop, his own breath fast as his head tilts to nip at the tips of Sinbad's other fingers, eyes dark and skin flushed hot. "So put it there," he husks, unthinking and uncaring, just wanting.

It’s better because it’s Ja’far. 

It’s Ja’far, who understands that most people like sex, and occasionally deigns to let Sinbad touch him, who can be reduced to a squirming, panting mess and still be composed in five minutes, who can have earth-shattering orgasms and not feel the need for them until the seasons change back to winter the next year, who never, ever feels the urge to part his lips and let Sinbad feel the drag of his soft tongue.

And oh, that makes it better. 

Sinbad’s never parted his robes so fast, hands sliding under Ja’far’s keffiyeh to comb through the soft silky strands of his hair, urging him down. “Taste it,” he murmurs, just enough pressure to be a guiding hand, steering his drunken face between Sinbad’s legs. And I’ll die happy.

Ja'far doesn't think, and it's better that way.

It's better not to think, when his nose would normally be turned up and he'd be annoyed at the mere suggestion. Right now, however, there's nothing more that he wants than the taste on his tongue, and his lips part eagerly, a breathy, heated little moan escaping as his tongue swipes over the tip of Sinbad's cock. The head of it smears over his lips, and he's all the more thoughtless as Ja'far sucks the head of it into his mouth, eyes shutting at the weight of just that much on his tongue, the stretch of his lips and the heady taste of him.

Somehow, all the practiced skill of his girls, all the unbridled inhibition of Judal’s skilled mouth, can’t compare to the curious, sloppy way Ja’far’s tongue flicks out over his cock. It’s enough to make Sinbad wonder if he’s ever done this before, and just that thought makes his cock twitch, impossibly hard as the head slides between those supple lips. He’s almost hesitant to talk, worried he’ll break the spell and Ja’far will snap back to his senses, but he can’t help a low groan that forces its way out his throat. “Good,” he murmurs, even if it’s the least appropriate word for how his mind is nothing but fizzles and crackles of pleasure.

Good. Ja'far shivers, probably more pleased than he should be at how happy that makes him to hear, and it only spurs him on, leaves him lapping and sucking sloppily at Sinbad's cock, little muffled, eager noises leaving his tongue as it wriggles its way against the thick length of it. Ja'far lifts a hand, pushing his hair back from his face as his head bobs, the slide of Sinbad further into his mouth making him draw a fast breath through his nose. No matter how he swallows, there's no helping how he gags, bringing him to sloppily pull back with a panting exhale, his face flushed and lips slick and bruised as they brush languidly over the tip. "You're really…" Too big, too much, how does anyone do this--

Now, Sinbad is certain that Ja’far’s never done this before, and that realization, that trust, and everything it implies, makes it easy for his hands to be gentle in Ja’far’s hair even when he just wants to thrust up between those lips, rutting hard against that pretty face until he comes. “Easy,” he says instead, stroking, petting gently. “You don’t have to take it all in, it feels good just like that.” Feels good just knowing it’s you down there.

His eyes are gentle as he takes one of Ja’far’s hands and curls it around his cock. “Just take what you can, your hand can do the rest.” And god, don’t stop or I might die.

Ja'far thinks he nods, focuses far more on the weight of Sinbad's cock within his hand, and like that, it almost feels even bigger--hard and thick and heavy in his grasp as he squeezes. His vision blurs a bit as he leans in for another taste, tongue flat as it swipes over the head of his cock, a soft, panting breath escaping hotly through his lips before Ja'far lets it slide into his mouth again, a little groan rumbling in the back of his throat. It's the knowledge that he's taken all of Sinbad into his body before that makes him twitch and squirm, the knowledge that even then it was too much and he still wanted it that encourages him all the more, and Ja'far's hands smooth their way over Sinbad's hips instead, grasping and tugging as his mouth works its way down, eyes lifting once he's managed half of him, lips stretched wide around him as his mouth works with wet, messy little noises.

Ja’far isn’t playing fair. 

Sinbad bites off a groan, eyes locked on Ja’far as he works his mouth, those dark snake’s eyes staring up at him, unfocused with the wine, but eager all the same. He wants to encourage him, wants to tell him how good he is at this for a beginner, but it’s all he can do to keep from thrusting his hips, grinding against that sweet slick mouth until he comes. 

A deep shuddering breath is all he can manage, and he nods, breathing, “That’s--god, yes, just like that, you’re--”

A low, needy sound pulls from Ja'far's throat, and no matter how he has to swallow hard, throat desperately working, he takes Sinbad down until the head of his cock bumps against the back of his throat. He chokes, eyes squeezing shut hard, and his fingers fumble to wrap around the few inches of Sinbad's cock that he just can't manage, though god, does he want to. Right then, Ja'far wants Sinbad stuffed as far down his throat as he can be, wants to taste nothing but him, and his next moan is a muffled, breathy thing, jaw aching and lips slick and shiny as he drags back, slurping and sucking and unable to stop himself from drooling no matter how unseemly, how slutty he must look sucking on his king's cock like a whore he's dragged in from a party. 

In a last desperate effort not to simply rut against Ja’far’s face like he’s some pretty whore who doesn’t mind, Sinbad lets go of his hair, fisting his hands into the sheets, head tipping back as he moans. The wine pulses in his head now, or maybe that’s just the nearness of Ja’far, the way the slight little man has the power to undo him like no one else. 

The surrender comes on him suddenly, so sweet he doesn’t have a chance to warn Ja’far before flooding his mouth, collapsing back onto his elbows as he shudders, pulsing hot and long against Ja’far’s tongue.

He can’t help but look, staring at the way Ja’far’s mouth overflows, and god, he’s never seen a more erotic sight.

Ja'far coughs as he draws back, trying to swallow what he can and certainly failing as it drips from his lips and leaves him lifting a hand to wipe at the mess of it. It's a thoughtless thing that brings him to lift his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean, with Sinbad's taste still leaving him feeling shaky and all the more lightheaded as he sags down into the bed, panting still and with his vision swimming. 

No matter how Sinbad’s blood pounds in his veins, his vision is clear as he stares at Ja’far, the soft swipe of his tongue across sticky fingers, somehow managing to be more enticing than any whore despite his innocence. His breath is nowhere close to normal as he gathers Ja’far up in his arms, urging him into his lap as he presses soft kisses against those intriguing freckles. “Thank you,” he says softly.

That's another shudder that rakes down his spine and brings him to nestle himself against Sinbad's broad chest no matter how lewdly his legs splay over the man's lap. Sinbad is warm--or maybe that's just him, overly so, flushed and still feeling as if his blood is rushing too fast, and Ja'far trembles as he buries his face into his king's neck. "As long as it was good," he mumbles. "I don't… not for anyone else. Just you." 

“Far better than good,” Sinbad assures him, one arm snaked around Ja’far’s waist to pull him close, the other stroking, petting that soft hair he can’t ever get enough of. It’s nothing like his own, or any of the folk he takes to his bed, but light and silky and flyaway like nothing seen in the Sindrian nations. He buries his face in it, inhaling deeply, a smile curling his lips as he tightens his arms. “What shall I do for you, then?”

Ja'far thinks that maybe he purrs a bit, liking far too much the way that Sinbad holds him and touches him like he's something appreciated. "I don't care," he sighs out, and his arms lift to wind their way around Sinbad's neck as he wriggles his way deeper into the man's lap. "You're warm." That's definitely not just the alcohol. "Like it when you hold me like this." 

More than warm, Sinbad burns, not a bit of his desire slaked along with his lust. Ja’far is an eager, writhing thing in his lap, and Sinbad surely can’t be blamed for wanting to put his hands all over him, sliding his hands down his lower back, filling them with soft, supple, firm flesh that is really far too curvy to be on a man so slight and lean. “I like holding you like this.” He brushes his lips around the curve of Ja’far’s ear, nibbling on the lobe. I’d do it all day if you’d let me. “You like being in my lap? Knowing how much I burn for you?”

"Yes." It might as well be a hiss, for how breathlessly it's gasped out. Ja'far's back arches, teeth biting into a swollen, trembling lower lip as he presses himself back into Sinbad's hands, shuddering at the knead of long, strong fingers into the curve of his ass. His cock throbs, and he can't think when his hips shamelessly jerk forward, grinding down. "I want--" His breath hiccups, and Ja'far's fingers clutch and knead at Sinbad's shoulders, panting hot into the king's neck. "W-want you to fuck me." It sounds too obscene on his tongue, and any other time he'd cringe at the thought of saying it, but god, there's nothing else he can think about right now. 

The words on Ja’far’s tongue are electric, as if Sinbad had stood too close to a bolt of lightning bound for his heart, and goosebumps prickle along his arms as his cock rises, regardless of how recently he’d spent himself. His body understands as well as his mind how rare this is, and how much he wants to fill Ja’far until he bursts, screaming and aching and beside himself with lust, on the one day that he’s drunk enough to ask for it.

Some part of him wants to hold out, to tease and wait until Ja’far lets even dirtier words flow from his lips, but that’s a lost cause. He’s too far gone, too eager himself to delve under those robes with fingers slicked from a jar near the bed, trailing up the cleft of that perfect, perfect ass to press one up inside. “I’ll fuck you,” he breathes, teeth tugging on that ear, rubbing up to press his hardening cock against Ja’far’s. “Until you’re screaming my name.” Or begging me to stop.

Ja'far groans, trembling until it feels like he'll simply melt with the next touch from his king, with that single finger nearly, just nearly doing him in. His body can't even protest, never mind the familiar ache of that finger stretching him, and Ja'far merely squirms his way down, panting as he presses himself back against Sinbad's hand, twists and rocks to grind his cock against the other man's, feeling so pleasantly, perfectly trapped on all sides that his world narrows even more, thinking of only what it will feel like with Sinbad inside him. 

"Please," he mindlessly begs, biting his lip as his body shudders hard, his hips wriggling down seemingly on their own accord to fuck himself on Sinbad's hand. "P-please, I'm--"

Another finger worms its way inside, stretching as carefully as Sinbad still has the mind to do when everything Ja’far does drives him mad. He rocks slowly against him, grinding up in a vague attempt to relieve some of the ache of how badly he wants Ja’far, only managing to make it worse. “Is this what you’re always like when you lose control?” he asks, a hint of laughter in his voice, and god, Ja’far is always so tight inside. “Under that scowl? Are you always wanting me to pick you up and set you on my cock? Do you want that now?”

"Yes!" God, it might as well be a sob with how badly his voice shakes and cracks, his nails biting into the back of Sinbad's neck as he buries his face into one strong shoulder. Ja'far shivers hard, his thighs quivering as his legs splay wider over Sinbad's lap, as if that'll help somehow, or maybe even encourage him to go faster when all he really does want right then is Sinbad's cock inside of him. His vision blurs and his eyes squeeze shut, face so hot that it hurts. "I just--just want your cock in me, please--"

It’s not a cruel tease, though Ja’far probably thinks it is, when Sinbad slides another finger inside, slowly opening him up, stretching out that tightness. Ja’far is too inclined to do things the hard way too much of the time, and like this, with his inhibitions out the window, it’s easy to imagine him really hurting himself. He’s a little thing, and after all, Sinbad would be no less careful with a girl of that size. “You’ll have it,” he promises, curling and stroking his fingers inside that tight, tight heat. He crooks his neck, enough to murmur in Ja’far’s ear, “You’ll have so much of it you’ll taste me in your mouth.”

Ja'far's body sags, and it takes what is left of his will power not to simply come at the thought of that, no matter how it goes straight to his cock and leaves him squirming, aching all the more with every throb of his pulse making him that much harder. "Please," he rasps again, hands kneading mindlessly into Sinbad's shoulders, clutching and clinging as he rocks helplessly down against Sinbad's hand. "I'm begging you, I can't--"

If Sinbad were less far gone, he’d probably try and warn Ja’far. He’d make sure Ja’far is aware that he’s already come once, he’s likely to last a while, and he’s so riled up by Ja’far’s squirming that he’s not going to be gentle, a bit too drunk to properly control himself.

It’s all he can do to make sure he’s loosened Ja’far up enough, and besides, Ja’far would just ignore him anyway. 

At least that’s what Sinbad tells himself as he carefully slides his fingers out, pulse thudding hard at the thought that he’s about to be buried in that slick tightness, and there’s no care left in him by the time he picks Ja’far up by the waist as if he weighs no more than a feather, setting him down harder than he’d intended, sinking deep inside him with the first, heady thrust. “G-god--”

Too much, far too much, and god, it's good that way.

Ja'far's mouth simply falls open, his cries and whimpers silenced as he gulps, swallowing hard, every muscle trembling and tight as he's set down on Sinbad's big cock and left so full that he can't breathe. No matter how far his legs are splayed over Sinbad's lap, there's no relief, no way to escape from how every thick inch of his king stuffs him full, spreads him open and leaves him gasping, clutching with trembling fingers and sinking helplessly down, gravity pushing Sinbad that much deeper inside of him. Ja'far thinks about trying to move, no matter how the slightest rock or twist of hips leaves him whimpering, whining like something pathetic, his own cock so hard that every brush or grind of it against anything is enough to leave him gasping. "S-Sin--" 

He’s too far gone.

Sinbad doesn’t feel like a king, not even a man as he grips Ja’far’s waist, something more like the snarling grunt of an animal leaving his lips as he thrusts up hard, undone in a way he only ever lets himself be around Ja’far, who knows him best of all. That’s hardly to Ja’far’s advantage now, as it means he’s hauled down, yanked into every snap of Sinbad’s hips, forced down again and again when all Sinbad can think, can feel, is the slippery tightness so hard it’s to the point of pain, gripping his cock like a vice and squeezing.

He’s not gentle, knew he wouldn’t be and surprises himself anyway with how savage he is, how little control there is left in his body, biting too hard into Ja’far’s neck, sucking enough to leave angry purpling bruises and loving the idea.

When Sinbad said he'd have him screaming, he meant it.

Shrieking, more like, breathlessly and broken, sobbing out Sinbad's name as all he can do is cling to the man's neck, trembling and shivering and hurting and loving it. There's nothing that Ja'far can feel beyond the way Sinbad's cock pushes into him, leaves him twitching and gasping when it pushes too deep, leaves him panting open-mouthed and sagging into Sinbad's chest. His mind tries to shift to the way Sinbad's mouth feels on his neck, his teeth nipping sharply into Ja'far's skin with bruises left in his way, but there's nothing, nothing better than being claimed, used and fucked so thoroughly--

Ja'far spills with a ragged, desperate gasp, wriggling and squirming down onto Sinbad's cock all the more as he spends himself between them, his eyes glazed and vision nearly gone from how hard he comes, how good it feels no matter the intense, sore ache of everything.

Sinbad has just enough breath to spare a ragged, panting apology before he flips Ja’far onto his back, wrenching his legs up and slamming in deep, eyes closed as he relinquishes the last gasp of control. He tries so hard usually to keep himself from hurting anyone, hurting Ja’far in particular, but the wine is strong and Ja’far feels good, and some secret little voice at the back of his head whispers that Ja’far is stronger than he looks, he can take it.

Words are a forgotten thing as he takes what he wants, rough and desperate and ungentle, spreading Ja’far’s legs as wide as they’ll go, folding him nearly in half to give himself more leverage, teeth sinking deep enough into Ja’far’s neck that he tastes blood.

Ja'far wants to keep screaming, no matter how his voice is hoarse and broken and it's impossible with how he's splayed over the bed, struggling to merely breathe. He surrenders instead, crumpling into the bed with a desperate, thready little sob, eyes barely cracked open and too-wet with overwhelmed tears as he's left helpless and trapped, choking on gasps with every hard, deep thrust. Somehow, he manages to fist a hand in Sinbad's hair, yanking to keep his mouth on his neck, his teeth in his flesh, no matter how that hurts too, a sharp pain amongst slick, throbbing aches. Use me, mark me, I'm yours, yours, yours--

No matter how good Ja’far feels around him, no matter how far gone Sinbad is courtesy of simply taking what he wants, plundering that sweet tightness, the taste of Ja’far’s skin, it’s the hand in his hair that undoes him. It’s Ja’far, needing him, still wanting him even when he’s sated and pained and Sinbad is like this, that drives him to his completion, spilling hot and hard within the other man with a hoarse shout, burying himself with a force great enough to bruise.

The world takes long, long minutes to right itself, slowly spinning back into focus as Sinbad lays panting on Ja’far’s quivering limbs, only belatedly remembering to shift off of him. “You...are not safe for me,” he says quietly, easing himself off and lowering Ja’far’s legs.

Ja'far thinks he laughs, or at least tries, too, no matter how rasping the sound might be. "Don't you mean that the other way around?" he whispers, blinking hard to keep his eyes open as he worms his way against Sinbad's side, no matter how it hurts to move and how his limbs feel entirely useless. 

“Probably,” Sinbad admits, curling his arms around Ja’far’s waist and pulling him close. He still smells good, light and delicate and invigorating, even soaked with sweat and smelling of Sinbad, and he really can’t help pressing little brushes of his lips across those freckles. “I never lose control so much as when I’m with you. Are you all right?”

A nod, and Ja'far exhales a slow, content sigh through his nose, never mind that they're both sweaty and all but sticking to one another and any other time he'd be insisting on a bath this instant. It's funny, how a bit of alcohol dulls him to normal stressors so very thoroughly. "I think… you've about made me lose my voice." That's really the least of Sinbad's crimes.

Sinbad yawns, tucking his chin on top of Ja’far’s head, his eyes sliding shut. “That’s fine. I’ll do your talking for you.” He vaguely tugs the blanket over them, pressing a last kiss to the top of Ja’far’s head. “Wake me up when you start panicking.”


	5. Chapter 5

There isn't any actual panic for some time, really, no matter the circumstances.

 

Ja'far wakes with a throbbing, horrible headache, cursing the sun and everything to do with it as his face buries its way into a pillow. He remembers lying that way for some time, at least a few hours before Sinbad wakes, and fields the man's honest, genuine concern that he isn't up and about and screeching. Ugh, he hurts, which is reason enough to stay quiet and still--his head, his legs, his hips, all down to his _bones_ , and he doesn't even want to think about the ache in his jaw or… elsewhere. Sinbad can _insinuate_ (and probably already has, considering how he frets). 

 

That being said, he isn't an invalid. He's just tired, and not an idiot. Even if the idea of missing a day of work stresses him, working himself to uselessness does even more so, and so Ja'far resigns himself to a day of proper rest for once, shooing Sinbad away at every opportunity, until there are cold cloths on his face and the gentle wash of his king's magic lulling him to sleep without a chance to protest again. 

 

Ja'far doesn't wake until sometime later, and it's to the shifting of the mattress and pulling of blankets. He stirs with a groan, stretching slowly, pleased to find that he isn't quite so sore and merely stiff instead, with his headache far less agonizing than it was hours earlier. "Sin," he mumbles, reaching out a pale hand. "I told you, I don't need your coddling--just get your work done."

 

The wrist his fingers close around is far more _narrow_ than Sinbad's, and Ja'far jerks his touch way as if he's been burned, with the scramble to sit up immediately following. He doesn't get far--not before Judal leans over him, a little smile on his lips that is _far_ from kind, and Ja'far's mind immediately, frantically thinks of his Household Vessel, still undoubtedly strewn over the floor along with his robes from the night prior--

 

"Ah. Not so much a snake today, and far more a rat, are we?" 

 

Judal sounds _annoyed_ , no matter how he smiles, and that's never safe. Ja'far opens his mouth, only to shut it again promptly when the sharp tip of the Magi's want presses beneath his chin, Judal's head cocked to the side as if he really is a cat that has a mouse cornered and wants to _play with it._ "I was hoping to surprise the idiot when he came back in here… but you ruined that by being here first." Judal's eyes narrow. "Geez, up close, you're not even that pretty. Why does he bother?" 

 

Ja’far can take care of himself.

 

Sinbad knows that, has been batted away by him enough times today to drive that point rather far home, but damned if it doesn’t sit sort of wrong with him, the way he’d lost control and wound up taking his advisor so hard he’d actually missed meetings. He’d made Ja’far’s excuses, made them all day as he’d kept his mind on task, taking care of whatever paperwork he’d been left in a vague attempt to, if not apologize, at least not make Ja’far regret the previous night any more than he was already certain to.

 

But even the questionable lure of paperwork isn’t enough to distract him from the memory of Ja’far lying in the fetal position on his bed, curled up and pained with every motion, hungover but also _aching_ from the roughness of their lovemaking. Really, no matter how he insists it’s fine, Sinbad has a duty as the stronger one, the larger and more powerful one, to censor himself rather than trusting Ja’far’s words.

 

So it’s with a few date-stuffed honey breads and a tall pitcher of water with crushed mint leaves that he makes his way back to the bedchambers, determined that if he can’t magic away Ja’far’s wounds, he can at least soothe them with some aloe. “You awake?” he calls softly, backing into the door to open it. “I brought you some food.”

 

Ja'far isn't sure if he's relieved or _terrified_ at the way Judal shifts away from him, expression immediately brightening with Sinbad's presence. Either way, he moves as soon as Judal's wand gives him an inch, a swift roll and grab for his wires the attempt he had in mind--

 

Until that wand isn't at his throat, but digging into the back of one of his hands before he can as much as even lean off the bed, with Judal's gaze narrowed in warning, an obvious and open threat that he'll stab it straight through, given the chance. Ja'far exhales a slow, measured breath, and Judal's eyes flicker back towards Sinbad.

 

"So the idiot king's a nursemaid today, huh? _I_ never get special treatment like that." 

 

The tone is mocking, but Ja'far can smell jealousy a mile away, and in this case, it makes his stomach twist. _Sorry, Sin_ , he wants to say, the lurch of nausea at being decidedly useless today in every sense of the word doing his lingering hangover no favors. He _should_ have at least been able to knock him out and toss Judal back out of the window, or hang him from the ceiling and give Sinbad a chance to deal with him properly, and yet--

 

"I still don't really get it," Judal casually says, as if he isn't slowly grinding his wand into the back of Ja'far's hand. "Why you bother with this one."

 

A deep, slow breath. God, it’s probably bad that something deep inside of Sinbad sings for this, lives for the danger of it all.

 

Then again, the danger tastes a lot sweeter when Ja’far isn’t messed up in it because of _his_ mistakes. Ja’far is a very capable person, strong and lithe and deadly, but he deserves to pick his own battles, especially if they happen to be Sinbad’s. 

 

Casually, he sets the basket of breads on the bed, straightening up and crossing his arms over his chest. “You came back,” he says, as if Judal isn’t currently holding his best general at wand-point. “And you’ve been busy.”

 

"Didn't you tell me I could come back?" Judal leans forward a bit, expression almost softening enough to be a pout. "I was going to surprise you, but then _this_ thing--" Another twist and grind of his wrist, and there's the scent of fresh blood in the air. "Was already in your bed." 

 

Ja'far prides himself on his pain tolerance, and now is no exception. Never mind that he's going to have a hole in his hand by the end of this--he's stone-faced all the same, and draws in an even breath before daring to speak. "I can leave."

 

"Oh, no, don't _inconvenience_ yourself-- _Sin_ seems to like you here well enough." That sneer is back, and Ja'far struggles not to see red. An attempt to reach over and strangle the brat would end badly, without a doubt. "Isn't that right, Sinbad? Even if he looks more like a gutter rat today than your pretty snake."

 

Sometimes logic is difficult. 

 

Sinbad can taste the danger in the air, the sense that anything could spark a fuse at this moment and the entire room--the entire country could explode in a shower of rukh. Logic tells him that it would be best to calm Judal down before he becomes that fuse, but Judal’s never had a moment to spare for logic in any case, and he’s _hurting_ Ja’far. He’s hurting Ja’far, and Ja’far is doing _nothing_ , presumably because he’s smarter than Sinbad and has the same sense of danger.

 

All the logic in the world doesn’t stop Sinbad from the slow boil of rage that comes from the fact that Ja’far is hurt, Ja’far is in danger-- _because_ he’s in Sinbad’s bed.

 

He crosses between the two in a few long strides, gripping the wand tightly in his hand. “You came to see me, right? Not him.”

 

Judal's head tilts as he leans up onto his knees, nose nearly brushing Sinbad's as he smiles. "And yet he was here in my line of sight, wasn't he? I could do something about that… aren't you tired of him yet?" 

 

“What I am tired of,” Sinbad says, one hand coming up to caress Judal’s face at the same time it closes firmly under his chin, a promise of strength more than the actual execution of a stranglehold, “is blood on my sheets that I didn’t put there, and someone attacking my general.” He raises an eyebrow, leaning close. “Do you think your charms so insubstantial that I would tire of you?”

 

Judal's eyes narrow rather than lid. "I already told you--I don't like the way you look at him." 

 

Judal might be strong--stupidly, ridiculously so--but he's easily distracted, and Ja'far thanks the heavens for that, especially when it slackens the Magi's hand, makes the press of the wand pinning his hand that much less of a pressure, and he'd be an idiot not to take that opportunity. Ja'far wrenches his hand away in one, abrupt movement, and deftly rolls from the bed to snatch up one of his blades. It's at Judal's throat in an instant, never mind how Ja'far's muscles shake in protest, fingers twitching as blood drips down them and Judal merely blinks at him, a mix amused and annoyed. 

 

" _Everyone_ here is cranky today, it seems," the Magi grumbles, making no attempt to move away, obviously _unconcerned._ That makes Ja'far angrier than anything and it's difficult not to try and chop the demon's head off. "Fine. I was going to tell you something interesting, Sinbad, but I guess I'll just go _home_." He sounds like a petulant five year old at best.

 

Ja’far is smart.

 

That’s Sinbad’s only consolation, knowing that Ja’far is smart, and understands manipulation on a level Judal could never dream of, and in some ways, far better than Sinbad himself. Surely, Ja’far will be able to understand his next move, when whatever he does next is so damned important. Judal’s never given him any news that’s less than very, very important, after all.

 

_Sorry, Ja’far. I hope you understand._

 

Sinbad’s hand relaxes, thumb stroking down the curve of Judal’s neck. “What if I send him away?” he asks, lowering his voice to something less tight and angry. God, he can smell Ja’far’s blood, and it makes him angry enough to want to snap the brat’s neck right here and now. “Then it can just be the two of us.”

 

Judal slowly relaxes, looking less annoyed and more smugly pleased as he sinks back onto one hand, ever unmindful of the blade pointed at his throat. "Oh? You must really want to hear what I have to say, then. Send him away, then. Tell him how his presence is no longer _needed_." 

 

 _I'm going to kill him_ , Ja'far silently vows, grinding his teeth as his hand now shakes courtesy of scarcely contained rage. Never mind if he knows what Sinbad is doing--it doesn't make him _hate_ the Magi any less, nor does it make him want to leave his king in a room alone with the little bastard. 

 

Not that he can do much in this situation, anyway. That thought in particular makes him start seeing red again.

 

It’s been an old joke, among his advisors and friends (because what are they, if not his friends?) that Sinbad doesn’t even have to say something for Ja’far to understand, like a couple that’s been married for long decades. Just now, he really, really hopes that’s the case, because otherwise it’s going to be his own throat those blades are pointed at later, and he’ll deserve it.

 

“You can go, Ja’far.” He doesn’t look away from Judal’s mad eyes, swirling with hate and pain even under that half-cocked smile. “You know where to wait for me.” _Close, so  you can hear everything, because I don’t trust anything Judal says even if I’m drawn to him like no one else._

 

Ja'far's jaw clenches as he nods, hand withdrawing as he slides a knee from the bed. "Understood. I'll--"

 

"Wrong." The wand in Judal's hand spins, and the crackle of power behind it is so sharp that Ja'far feels his hair stand on end as it's pointed at him. "I told you, Sinbad, to tell him you didn't _need him_." Judal lurches up, eyes lidded and dark as they hold Sinbad's gaze. "I want to hear it. Or should I make it so you never have use for him ever again?"

 

Insufferable little wretch. Ja'far's eyes flicker towards Sinbad again, long-suffering. _Just say it before he gets even more wound up._

 

He has Ja’far’s _permission_ , given in that quick little look. It would be so easy to do as Judal says, to send Ja’far away and hear this news, then make it up to his advisor later. 

 

It would be stupid to backhand Judal out the window, showing him that there’s no place in Sindria for someone who threatens his generals, someone who thinks he can tell Sinbad what to do, but that’s what he wants, wants it so badly he can feel his hand twitching to put the brat in his _place_.

 

More than anything, it’s the knowledge that should Judal survive their fight--and he most likely would survive, he’s like a cockroach that way--it’s Ja’far he’d come after. 

 

Sinbad nods, blinking once at Ja’far with all that he can possibly convey. “Get out of here, Ja’far,” he says, careless and dismissive. “I don’t need you anymore.” God, the words stick on his tongue, even as he rattles them off easily enough.

 

Ah, it doesn't make it any more pleasant to hear it, even knowing it's a lie. Still, with a bow of his head and a careful bend of his knees to sweep his robes up and over one arm, Ja'far turns for the doorway. "As you wish." _I won't be far._

 

Judal's head tilts as Ja'far takes his leave, neck craning a bit to get a good glance of the man from head to toe before his robes are swept around his shoulders in one fluid motion. "Ahhh, I guess I can see why you bother. Nice legs." His lips twist into a bright smile as he looks back at Sinbad. "Still, what a drag of a personality. Don't you wish you had someone more fun at your side?"

 

Sudden, irrational anger wells up at the idea of anyone, especially _Judal_ , looking at the scars on Ja’far’s legs, having no idea what he’s been through to get to where he is, seeing only something pretty and lithe to throw on his back. He quells that, slowly, knowing that Judal’s just trying to get a rise out of him, annoyed with how well it’s working. “If you had half the tolerance for paperwork he does, maybe,” he says with a little smile, trying to dismiss his dearest friend as an office drudge.

 

Judal's nose wrinkles at that, and he carelessly tosses himself onto his back, a sinuous stretch following the movement as he makes himself comfortable. "Well, I guess you can keep him for that… not that paperwork's gonna do you any good anytime soon."

 

Judal’s information had _better_ be good. That’s all Sinbad can think as he stares at the place that until recently, Ja’far had been relaxed and content and recovering in, something he _never_ allows himself, now with Judal languidly draped over it. “Oh no? Have you decided to choose Kouen after all?”

 

At that, Judal giggles, as if privy to a joke that Sinbad doesn't understand. "I'd _love to_ , really, but I haven't had much of a chance with everything that's been going on. Haven't you heard? The Emperor of the Kou Empire is dead."

 

Abruptly, Sinbad’s irritation vanishes, replaced by a whirling storm of possibilities. His eyes flash as he leans forward, eager and intrigued. “Have they declared Kouen yet?” _Can they, if you’re here with me instead of in the Kou Empire?_

 

Abruptly, he realizes that the best option he has is to kill Judal before he makes it back to Kou, if that is truly his intent. It’s a damned shame he looks so much like a contented kitten batting at a toy.

 

"Oh, look how interested you are now," Judal breathes, lifting a hand to catch a strand of Sinbad's hair, twirling it about his fingers. "Your rukh is so _dark_ when you start scheming. Nearly purple, even." His hand drops away. "Kouen has been a bit… delayed, in his rise to the throne."

 

Really, he doesn’t _have_ to kill Judal. He’s a useful tool, could be a lot more useful if he were bound as Sindria’s magi. Waiting for Aladdin was a good idea, but he’s still nowhere to be found, and if Kouen is rising _now_ \--

 

He leans forward, pinning Judal’s hands above his head, letting his hair trail over Judal’s exposed skin, leaning down almost close enough to kiss. “Delayed? By whose will?”

 

"That harpy," Judal answers on a sigh, sinking down into the mattress as his fingers curl, kneading as if they were a cat's paws. "Gyokuen. She's strong, though… Al-Sarmen favors her, so there's little contest at this point, you know? Kouen can't do anything but wait." His head tilts languidly back into the bed. "If she's an Empress already, maybe _she_ would be a better choice. I don't like watching any of my candidates be so easily _controlled_ , after all."

 

If Gyoukuen is in charge--Sinbad’s mind races, envisioning a dozen, a hundred situations, pitting Gyoukuen against Kouen, subtracting for forces lost, imagining an alliance instead, factoring where each sibling would fall--has he been charming enough to Kougyouku? Has he been fatherly enough to Hakuryuu? Are either of them charismatic enough to make a difference, strong enough to make a stand? 

 

Above all, if the internal politics really do devolve into strife, where will one obnoxious Magi align himself?

 

He grins, dipping his head down to brush his lips across the hard ridge of Judal’s abdomen. “I don’t like the thought of you on your knees for a woman.”

 

A bare foot solidly connects with the top of Sinbad's head as Judal abruptly twists, his leg hiked up to deliver the kick properly. "When you're really interested in _me_ ," he dispassionately says, grinding his heel down, "your rukh is different. You're really off your game today, idiot. All of you are. Kougyoku didn't even try, Hakuryuu wants to be stubborn, Kouen is content to _wait_. Maybe I don't want any of you."

 

Sinbad pulls back, rubbing his head almost sheepishly. “You caught me off guard,” he admits, letting go of Judal’s wrists. Damn, but he wishes he could see his own rukh, see what it’s doing, control it somehow so he’s not at the mercy of Judal’s mad whims. Then again, the temptation to constantly look at it, to see the changing colors--did all of them change, when those feelings come over him? Or are there just more dark ones, less light ones? Is there a gray in between?

 

Questions he probably doesn’t want to know the answers to.

 

He flops down onto the bed, shoving the planning, the scheming firmly down. Ja’far will be taking care of that anyway, and right now it’s more important to pacify their greatest enemy. “Is that why you came all the way here? No entertainment in the Kou empire?”

 

Mollified slightly by the fact Sinbad seems inclined to be _honest_ again, Judal sags back into the mattress, a huff escaping his lips. "No one wants to listen to me, so I came here. I _wanted_ to surprise you, like I said earlier… but your stupid adviser got in the way of that." He sighs, stretching carefully. "Boring. None of you are any good."

 

Sinbad reaches over to the basket he’d brought. There’s plenty more he can get Ja’far later, when things aren’t quite so _tense_ and important. “They don’t feed you enough over there,” he says, plucking out a date-stuffed honey bun and dangling it at Judal’s lips. “Your ribs are starting to show. How are you supposed to pick a king like that?”

 

Judal frowns at him, eyeing the bun before he snatches it with too-eager fingers. "I eat enough," he protests all the same, in-between stuffing it into his mouth. He swallows, licking his fingers clean with a little shrug. "I'm just naturally like this. Sometimes, I steal an entire banquet's worth, just for their reactions."

 

“Oh? And where do you put it all?” Sinbad teases, pinching the sparse skin around Judal’s midsection. Honestly, from the things Judal says sometimes, Sinbad doesn’t doubt that he’s more expensive to have as a pet the way the Kou empire does than to have as a nominal enemy. “Wait, don’t tell me. You get immensely fat and then burn it off with magic.”

 

"Hey, Magi need a lot of food to be able to do magic properly, you know!" Judal complains, swatting away Sinbad's hand as he squirms upright to grab another honey bun. "So what if I'm fat for five minutes? It doesn't _last._ "

 

Sinbad makes a face at the idea, running a thumb down the center of Judal’s belly. “And  where will you get all the food to do your magic if the Kou Empire collapses? No more banquets, no more fully-stocked kitchens. That’s the kind of thing that happens in a war too, you know.”

 

Judal shrugs. "A war is going to happen whether or not it's the Kou Empire that collapses or the _rest_ of the world," he says without batting an eye. "Either way, Al-Sarmen, at least, will remain intact. Or _you_ could take care of me."

 

One way or another, one of them always breaches that subject. And that, of course, is why no fragile peace between them can ever last. He stretches out, helping himself to the corner of a bun, nibbling gently on the crust. “Have you ever considered staying _without_ being my magi? I’d take care of you nonetheless.”

 

"Why would I want to do that?" Judal snorts, stuffing a bun half-into his mouth to slowly chew as he stares up toward the ceiling. "You say that, but you'd be over the idea in a day. Why would you want to keep me if I weren't your Magi?" 

 

Sinbad’s brow crinkles, and he reaches down to play with the ends of Judal’s hair. “You think so? Why do you think I put up with you now? You could easily be the priest of my country instead of the Kou Empire. I’d throw banquets in your honor, just for the pleasure of having you in my country.”

 

"… Why wouldn't you just accept my offer to be my king, then?" Judal sounds as confused as he looks, and a little annoyed, to boot. "It's the same thing." 

 

Sinbad sighs, rolling onto his stomach. It’s another fight he’s going to start, and maybe another war, but some things must be said a dozen times, no matter if the reaction is always the same. “It has nothing to do with _you_. It’s the people you ally yourself with. I don’t know how to say it any clearer. If you weren’t with Al-Sarmen, I’d take you to my side in an instant.”

 

"This again," Judal mutters, rolling onto his side with a huff of breath as he promptly turns his back to the other man. "If you don't like Al-Sarmen, then get rid of them. If you're strong enough, you could do it." 

 

“I am.” It won’t make any difference to declare his allegiance. No one from Al-Sarmen is his friend, and he’s sworn worse against them in the past. “But they are legion, and I’m only one man, after all. If you were against them instead of for them…”

 

"I'm for whoever grants me the most power. It has nothing to do with Al-Sarmen in particular." He glances back over his shoulder, scowling. "I've already told you--accept my offer, and I'd give all that power to you to do whatever you wanted with it." 

 

“Prove it.”

 

Judal blinks, taken off-guard. "… How do you expect me to do that if you won't even agree to anything?"

 

Sinbad shrugs. “Prove that you’re not simply their dog. If you aren’t truly loyal to them, I have no problem accepting your offer. Leave them, and I swear here and now that I’ll take you as my Magi and conquer the world with you.”

 

Judal rolls back over for the express purpose of glaring. "I'm not their _dog._ I'm… geez, it's not like I can just _leave them_ , though. You should just make use of them as much as I do."

 

“So you do want to be with them more than you want to be my Magi.” Sinbad rolls off the bed, stretching. “I’d think someone as powerful as you could simply leave whoever they wanted. It’s not like you’re getting much _use_ from them like they are from you.”

 

Judal's lips purse in irritation, head dropping down onto folded arms. "You really _are_ off-base today. I've used them since I've been with them--their teachers, their resources, their _luxury_ , it's all been mine, handed to me on a silver platter. Why _shouldn't_ I make use of that kind of power if it's right at my fingertips? The most they've told me to do is raise a dungeon or two, and that's like sneezing."

 

It’s been so long since Sinbad’s talked to someone so pathetically convinced of something stupid, he’s not quite sure he can manage without making it sound like he’s just as frustrated as he is. “You could have all of that with me, though. And they _are_ using you, even if you can’t see it. They use the _idea_ of you against their enemies.”

 

"And?" Judal's eyebrows raise. "You'd do the same, wouldn't you? Everyone does. It's kind of expected."

 

Sinbad nods--Judal is right, of course. “If that’s all it is, give them up. I’ll give you everything they are, so it’s just a matter of who you want to serve.”

 

It should be a lot easier to just say _yes._

 

Honestly, he doesn't quite understand why it _isn't_ easier. Every time Judal opens his mouth to agree, his head pounds, his mouth goes dry, and there's that little whisper in the back of his mind that makes him worry that Sinbad isn't as strong, that he isn't the right choice, Kouen or even Gyokuen now is far better--

 

"I can't." Ah. That's not quite what he meant to say, and certainly not so _weakly._ "I mean--I can, but…" _I don't want to--no, that's not it either, but it's definitely not as easy as just walking out, because Al-Sarmen…_

 

Doesn't let you leave, doesn't let you move, doesn't let you _think_. 

 

It's frustrating and he wants to be angrier about it--about not being able to simply leave and collapse in Sinbad's big, warm bed day in and day out instead of sometimes finding himself waking on a stone floor, eyes glazed and vision blurring until he just _sleeps_ again. Instead, there's an odd sense of relief when Judal hears himself laugh it off, shaking his head as he pushes himself upright. "Forget it. There's no way you're as strong as they are, anyway."

 

There’s something wrong with Judal.

 

Not in the way that Ja’far believes, although there’s certainly things wrong with Judal in probably every way--but there’s something really wrong with him, something that makes the fractured parts of his mind repel each other as if they’re on opposite poles, faceted and glittering in the mad light of his eyes. Judal _wants_ to say yes, that’s obvious, but it’s just as obvious that he literally can’t, and is convincing himself otherwise.

 

Well, he tried. Judal’s laughing again, uncaring again, and Sinbad can’t do anything but shrug. “If you say so. Obviously a Magi would know best.”

 

"Of course I do." With a huff, he's facedown in the bed again, burying his face into a pillow and thinking about how nice it _would_ be to make a home here, buried underneath Sinbad's sheets. At least then maybe Sinbad wouldn't be taking that advisor of his to bed--or at least, not to _this_ bed, which is what counts. Judal sighs, eyes lidding. "I'm gonna take a nap here. I don't want to go back and deal with Gyokuen just yet."

 

Sinbad lays a hand almost automatically on Judal’s head, curling and stroking. He’s never let himself think too far ahead of what it would actually be like to have Judal as _his_ , at least somewhat obedient to his whims, a slinky thing that actually helped him instead of harrassing him at every opportunity. It might be nice, even if he’d have to deal with Ja’far’s moods about it.

 

On that note, as soon as Judal’s breath drops off into sleep, Sinbad carefully stands, slipping out the door to what he’s certain is going to be a well-deserved beating.

 

The flat stare that meets him not three paces out of the doorway says it all.

 

"Why you even toy with the idea of accepting his offer still is beyond me." It's difficult for Ja'far to keep his tone hushed when he'd like better to snarl, would like even _more_ to be the one curled up in Sinbad's bed instead of that _brat_ \--not for any jealousy, definitely not that, but for the simple damned fact that his legs hurt, his _body_ hurts, and he's tired and fed up and _deserves_ that spot. Now, on top of everything, his hand throbs. Never mind that it's bandaged and no longer bleeding, it's the _principle_ of the thing and--

 

He's going to start spitting fire like in the dramatization of Sinbad's 'adventures.' Damn it all, Judal didn't even leave him a chance to dress properly and he's angry about that, too.

 

"What is it you enjoy more, I wonder? The idea of having a kept Magi as a pet in general, or the idea of _stealing him_ from so many others?" That's probably uncalled for. Ja'far is beyond caring.

 

“You would prefer to let the others have him?” Sinbad demands, nerves on edge no matter how he tries to blunt them because he’s truly, honestly _sorry_. Today was supposed to be a good day, a lazy and easy one where Ja’far smiled and ate and curled up and took time for himself for once, and Sinbad is probably more angry with Judal for ruining that than for blowing up half his country. He steers Ja’far down the hall, in the direction of some of the spare bedrooms, a vague hope of salvaging some of the day in his mind even if he knows it’s impossible. 

 

“I _tried_ to take Aladdin as Sindria’s Magi,” he reminds Ja’far, raking a hand back through his hair. “Then we wouldn’t have needed to fear the Kou Empire getting Judal, but by all means, accuse me of wanting a pet instead of focusing on the fact that the Empire has just been thrown into chaos and thrown to _Gyoukuen_ of all people!”

 

"The fact of the matter is you're _never_ going to agree to his offer, so why do you continue letting him come here other than the fact you like _playing_ with him?" It's more difficult to keep his voice down by the minute, no matter how it's still hoarse around the edges and he sort of wants to slap Sinbad for that, too. "He isn't some woman you can bed and toy with indiscriminately, Sin. He's _the Kou Empire's Oracle_ , Al-Sarmen's before he could as much as talk, and if he hasn't taken it upon himself by now to try and break their hold, _he never will._ Humoring him is to humor the Kou Empire and Al-Sarmen alike--and yes, their Empress as well--so _stop doing it!_ "

 

Sinbad can feel something akin to a growl welling up in his chest, hands clenching into fists, and he throws them up in the air instead of doing anything else with them. “Fine! Go kick him out of my bed. I’ll declare war on the lot of them, so _you_ choose which six out of every ten Sindrian men you want to bury! It’s a waste of my time to humor him and buy us a few more months to prepare before we’re attacked, this tiny, new, underprepared nation of ours, so go kill him if you can! Show the Kou Empire--which you _might_ have _noticed_ I’ve been working to recruit two of the five imperial children--and show Al-Sarmen, of which you _know_ the power, that Sindria is capable of killing their Magi in his sleep.”

 

He crosses his arms, glaring down at the younger man. “Go, if you’re going! I won’t stop you.”

 

"I'll do it," is the immediate, cold retort. "Perhaps that will snap you out of whatever delusion you've allowed yourself to fall under, if you truly think those are the only reasons you keep him. Is his stupidity contagious, I wonder?"

 

“You’re acting like a jealous wife,” Sinbad snaps, more annoyed than anything that above all people, Ja’far thinks _just that low_ of him. “If I courted a Magi by any other way than by bedding him, you wouldn’t even blink.”

 

" _Please_ ," Ja'far snorts dismissively, his arms folding tightly within his sleeves. "This has nothing to do with you _bedding him_ or any perceived jealousy you think I have. If you never spread his legs and still treated him the way that you do, I would be just as annoyed. I've told you once before--you treat him as if he's your lover, and you _defend him_ like that, worst of all."

 

“So go!”

 

It’s not the right volume for such a conversation, but Sinbad is more than at an end to his temper. “You want to make the decisions for this Empire, you’ve made them! I’ll do as you should be doing and inform the generals, while you deal with Judal _however you see fit_.” He extends an arm, gesturing in the direction of his bedroom. “Be warned, I won’t stop you.”

 

"… It really does bother you, doesn't it? Being reminded of your addictive personality," Ja'far deadpans. 

 

God, Sinbad wants to stay angry. It’s easier to stay angry, to think that Ja’far only says these things because he wants to be in Judal’s place, that he couldn’t possibly understand the choices Sinbad has to make, than to think he might be right.

 

Sinbad swallows hard, looking back towards the closed door of his bedroom. “Is it the same?” he asks quietly, almost dreading the answer. It isn’t often that he _needs_ Ja’far’s opinion on himself, and he almost never likes the answer.

 

"You aren't a fool, but he makes you look like one," Ja'far simply replies, eyes lidding tiredly as he sighs. "Sin. I see what you're trying to do, but stop trying to tell yourself that this is all one big machination and nothing more. Frankly, I don't even _care_ if you see him as less a conquest and more a bedmate, regardless of how appalling I find the little wretch--just so long as you admit it yourself and deal with accordingly rather than trying to push it aside as if it means nothing. It becomes _much_ more troublesome that way."

 

“I--” Sinbad bites his tongue, thinking for a moment. Annoying, that he actually has very little idea of how he _does_ think of Judal. How can he, when the man is completely different from one second to the next, from an affectionate kitten who doesn’t know how to retract his claws to a whirlwind of destruction and madness? 

 

His head bows forward, and he leans against the wall with a huff. “I didn’t want this today. I brought you food.”

 

"I know. And I appreciate it." Ja'far heaves another little sigh, a wry smile pulling at his lips. "I bet he ate all of it, too, didn't he? Magi are predictable in that sense." 

 

“He did.” Sinbad shrugs apologetically. “If you want to wait in one of the spare bedrooms, I can get you more. I _did_ want you to rest today, after all. Let me deal with Judal.”

 

"I'm up now; I might as well stay up, else I'll end up as creaky as an old man that I know in the morning." Ja'far eyes him, contemplative. "If you ever did want me to kill him, you only need say it once." 

 

Sinbad smiles, a bit ruefully. “And if I could be sure I wouldn’t lose you in the exchange, my friend, I would already have done so.” _For as strong as you think yourself, Judal’s magic is incomparable, and you aren’t as invincible as you believe._

 

 _That doesn't mean I wouldn't try, should you will it._ "Another time, then. In the meantime, if you truly want to be useful, you can tell me that I will be pleasantly surprised upon seeing how much work you've already completed today."

 

At that, Sinbad breaks into a real grin. “See for yourself. I even got you a nice thick cushion to sit on. You know, just in case you got up in the middle of the night to straighten scrolls by candlelight.”

 

"Ah, then you are still good for _something_ , even if you let my food get eaten by a stray cat," Ja'far sniffs. "I'll go and assess _that_ , then, while you make sure nothing happens to interrupt my work." 

 

Sinbad nods with a sigh, rueful and resigned as he watches Ja’far walk away.

 

For a few hours, he’d really thought something was going to change for the better.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

In other countries, in other kingdoms, Sinbad loves walking around incognito, donning the local clothing and experiencing a new place the way only the locals truly can. He loves the way no one treats him differently from anyone else, the way he can be known by the power of his body and the shine of his smile instead of his name, and--occasionally--seeing that spark of stunned recognition when someone does figure out who he is.

But at home in Sindria, it can’t be denied that he loves going around as the king.

The looks of honest gratitude, of recognizance, of devotion, yes, but comfortably so--in all honestly, it’s why he’d become a king, and not just the wealthiest conqueror in the area.

I know what you’ve done for us, it says, in the eyes of the older men and women. Things are better now, because of you. 

There’s none of that in the faces of the children. If they recognize him, which not all do, it’s as the man with the shiny clothes who always smiles back and sometimes has a sweet or a coin up his sleeve.

Better than the looks are the smells of the marketplace on a good day, and Sinbad can’t help but grin, nudging Ja’far’s arm with his elbow. “Feels good to get out of the palace and walk on the streets, eh? Taxes collected, permit books stamped, and now you promised I can buy you dinner, right?”

Ja'far heaves a long-suffering sigh, no matter how he does have to smile, just a little. It's a rare day that he allows himself out of the palace--a rare day that he can, to be honest, what with his workload--and even rarer that he takes Sinbad up on an offer for dinner. If it's happening, though, he might as well enjoy himself, and well, it's hard not to find Sinbad's honest excitement to practically have him on his arm sort of contagious… 

"Just dinner," he reminds his king. "I'm not dragging you back if you get drunk, you can stay out here on the streets if you like them so much."

There’s a flash of disappointment--but only a flash, and Sinbad squashes it quickly. It’s probably better for him, he tells himself, to take the occasional night away from the bottle. On the bright side, it’ll probably make tomorrow night more fun. 

And if his price is Ja’far consenting to be treated, well, that’s more than reward enough. “Just dinner,” he agrees. “We won’t even order wine. There’s an old woman over on Cyprus who always keeps a table open for me just in case.”

Maybe Ja’far will even be able to smile, tucked back into a candlelit corner away from the bustle of the Sindrian streets and the stress of the palace. “It’s quiet and clean,” he adds, trying to sweeten the deal.

"Ah, so you're finally acquiring some taste," Ja'far quips, a little flutter of relief going through him at that no matter how he teases. The noise and bustle of the palace is one thing--it's contained, easy to analyze, but crowded streets and so many people… it's all enough to give him a headache and a half at the very thought. Sinbad is catering to him that much, and it's nice.

Still, there are crowded streets to get there, and Ja'far shoves down the instinctive urge to feel anxious at not being able to follow every pair of hands that drifts anywhere remotely near his king. This is Sindria, after all; crime is negligible, and Sinbad is a rather beloved king.

Such a mindset makes him that much more surprised when they reach quieter, darker streets, and long, dirty fingers reach out from beneath a ragged cloak and grasp tightly to Sinbad's sleeve, surprisingly steadfast in their cling for the person being so wobbly on their feet. It's hard to be angry at beggar children, but honestly--"Mind who you lay hand on," he gently chides, reaching out a hand of his own to dislodge the beggar's from Sinbad, and reach into his pocket for a coin. Ah, come to think of it, a beggars are a rare if nonexistent sight within Sindria; it's something to take note of, to better allocate funds.

Instinctively, Sinbad reaches out, holding Ja’far back. The concern takes over, along with something like anger, shame, and he can’t help but look a bit accusatory. “Since when has a Sindrian been forced to beg for food or money?” he demands, kneeling without hesitation in front of the vagrant, reaching for his purse. “Grandfather, are you ill? Where are you sleeping tonight?”

That's about when something strikes Ja'far as odd.

All people, even humans with the lowest shred of magoi within their bodies, thrum with the pulse of it. It's a habit for him to try and determine how much, a constant assessment of threat or not born over many years, and not a habit Ja'far thinks himself rid of any time soon if strange things like this keep happening.

It isn't that there's a copious amount, or even that it has a strange feel to it; it simply isn't there--or if it is, it's cloaked so perfectly that he would find himself jealous of the technique.

"Sin," he flatly interrupts, a hand on the king's shoulder to stop him before he can reach out too close, and Ja'far reaches out instead, yanking away the beggar's hood in one quick motion. It goes unprotested--stranger still, that… until the person lifts their head, red eyes glassy and unfocused. 

If this isn't a trick of Al-Sarmen, then he doesn't know what is.

This is not the time for instinct. This is a time for thought, and deliberation, and trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

It’s a shame Sinbad can’t remind himself of that.

He stares, hand curling around those fingers--thin, so thin, and cold within his grasp--and reaches out to brush the hair back from those glazed eyes. “Judal?”

He has to ask. Has to, because it doesn’t feel like Judal, and it doesn’t make sense for it to be Judal, and god, he’s been worried sick and there’s no reason for Judal to be here even when he so obviously is.

It's with a lurch that the kid--no, it's Judal, definitely Judal, no matter how he feels nothing like him--is on his feet, grabbing desperately at Sinbad's hand and arm and clinging to him like the disgusting little growth that he is--

Ja'far has rather enjoyed his absence.

He might be seeing red when he slams a foot into the brat's shoulder, shoving him away from Sinbad again with an audible hiss of pain leaving those chapped lips. Ah, as much as that absence was pleasant, he might also be enjoying the chance to haul Judal up, to shove a blade at his throat without a wand at his own, and with little struggle save for a fluttering, terrified breath. New, but also pleasant. "You told me to kill him the next time he showed his face," Ja'far flatly reminds Sinbad over his shoulder. 

“Ja’far.” The name on his lips is simple, but cold, and a command if Sinbad’s ever, ever issued one.

There's a twitch that rolls through his shoulders, and Ja'far wonders if there has ever been anything more difficult to obey in his life. 

The blade lowers, and Judal immediately moves, stumbling forward to bury himself into Sinbad's chest, tangled, matted hair and filth and all. Ja'far's teeth grind as he looks up at Sinbad, trying to smooth away the annoyance in his expression to something more passive, though it's difficult with Judal shakes and shivers like a kicked animal. "I'm assuming we're rescheduling dinner." 

"Sorry," is the first, hurried rasp Ja'far hears from the thing clinging to Sinbad. "Sorry--I'm… there's nowhere else." He sounds so relieved to be buried into Sinbad's chest, Ja'far realizes, and that enough makes him want to stab Judal in the back of his neck, never mind the way he lifts his head and fixes tear-glazed eyes on Sinbad. God, don't let that work this time. Sin, stop thinking with the wrong head. 

This is different.

Sinbad can tell that immediately, from the lack of the crackling, fizzling power that always follows Judal wherever he goes, from the way Judal clings to him like a broken bird, thin and shaking and desperate. The hollowness in his voice hurts to hear, and it’s hardly more than reflex that makes Sinbad take the boy in his arms--just a boy really, for all his power Judal is still so young--and hold him tight enough to stop those tremors. 

Above all, the thing that convinces Sinbad this is no trick, even more than the lost look in his eyes, is the slight hesitation in Judal’s movements. There’s fear there, real fear of Ja’far and of Sinbad’s rejection, and Sinbad doesn’t hesitate to rest a large hand on the soiled, matted mess of Judal’s hair. “No one knows about this, Ja’far,” he says quietly, bending to gently lift Judal into his arms, tugging the hood back over his head. “I don’t know what’s going on but for the sake of Sindria, we have to learn before our enemies do.”

Something almost excited pulses in Sinbad’s blood. Maybe, just maybe, this is the first stone falling that signals an avalanche.

"Understood." That, certainly, is the most difficult thing to grind out right then--compliance to harboring this wretch again, regardless of what benefit (if any). "Then when we return, you can properly question him." Ugh, but it's impossible not to turn his nose up at the way Judal buries his face into Sinbad's neck, his shivering slowly abating. "After he's bathed." 

“I’ll attend to that. You deal with everything that can be dealt with, make my excuses.” He doesn’t need to tell Ja’far to put a guard on the door. He knows full well that his advisor will be doing that duty himself, whether Sinbad wants him to or not. 

It’s difficult, to keep his composure, to keep as casual as possible as he picks his way through back alleys and side streets up to a rear entrance of the palace, avoiding as much of people’s sight as he can. Judal is far too light in his arms, weighing no more than he does while floating around under the influence of his rukh. As he’s drawing a bath, Sinbad tries to remember how long it’s been since he’d seen Judal last, and realizes it must have been nearly half a year.

Judging from his appearance, it’s been about that long since Judal’s had a decent rest and meal. “Ja’far,” he calls, not bothering to do so very loudly, for all that his advisor is nowhere to be seen, “have food sent up. Plenty of it. Peaches, if we have any, and whatever Aladdin usually eats when he’s spellcasting.”

There isn't a reply, and merely the quiet sound of footsteps moving instead as an acknowledgement. Judal properly stirs for the first time since arriving within the palace--presumably, at the mention of food, and specific things at that--and blinks up through the mess of his bangs, eyes a little too wide and wary. 

"You're…" His voice breaks a bit again, and he swallows hard in an attempt to soothe it. "You're not… you're actually going to let me stay?" 

Stay.

Something awful has happened, that’s for certain, but Sinbad’s heart beats faster all the same. A calm, nonthreatening smile on his lips, he dips a cloth in the warm water, wiping gently at the dirt and--yes, those are bruises underneath--other marks on Judal’s face, his neck. “As long as you want. Our peaches aren’t quite as sweet as the ones farther east, but if you can live with that…”

There's a reflexive flinch to follow Sinbad's touch--not from any pain, but more as a learned response, like a dog that has been kicked too many times and learns to expect it. "… Yeah. That's fine." 

The sound of footsteps makes him jump, curling into a tight ball with his knees flush to his chest as Ja'far enters, sparing Judal not a single glance as he sets the basket of food down and briskly takes his leave after that. The thought of eating makes his stomach simultaneously churn and plead, and Judal settles for not thinking about it, especially when the association of a pair of very sharp, very angry snake's eyes now flood his thoughts. "Kouen… he wouldn't let me stay."

“Kouen is a fool.” A glance at Judal’s hair reveals it as a lost cause, at least for the moment, and Sinbad settles for lowering it into the warm basin, cupping water with his hands to wash what won’t fit. Slow, easy, fluid motions, that’s the trick. He’d nursed feral cats into domesticity as a child, a few times. No surprises, no sudden moves, and keep the voice level. Offer, but don’t brandish the food. Any wrong moves, and it’s back to the beginning. As much as he wants to push for information, that can wait. What can’t wait is getting Judal to relax, or at least giving him something, some lifeline to cling to. “You can stay here as long as you like. With me, or anywhere in Sindria. I swear I’ll keep you safe.”

His breath hiccups before he can think to try and hide it, face wet and hot and eyes hurting from how fast tears prick into them again and slide down his cheeks. "Y-you told me once that you wouldn't be as interested in me if I weren't… if I weren't a Magi, though." Judal hears himself laugh, hoarse and tired and strained. "So? Is that still true?" 

Ah.

Really, Sinbad has known since he’d seen those glassy red eyes, and not felt any of the accompanying surge of magoi. To hear it, to know it, he expects to feel disappointed, that this grab for power is a fruitless one, that Judal is never going to make him the high king of this side of the world.

Probably he’s more surprised at himself than Judal could ever be when the disappointment doesn’t come. 

The smile on his face is one of relief instead, and he dabs the cloth back in the basin, picking up one of Judal’s trembling hands and starting to wash it. “No. It’s not.”

Shock stops the tears faster than anything, and Judal finds himself staring. "I… what? You're lying," he weakly accuses, no matter how desperately he hopes Sinbad isn't. For the first time in awhile, he finds himself longing for the ability to see properly, especially when it comes to this man--to see whether it's white or black or shades of grey or something else fluttering around him, all to make it that much easier to tell a lie from the truth. 

Probably, it's more pathetic that he's used to not seeing it now than anything else. Judal feels his lower lip tremble and he looks away, ignoring how his stomach growls. 

Keep the smile easy, that’s the trick. “I’m not lying. It might be nice, not to have to fight Kouen and everyone for you all the time. You know, I generally don’t mind it when the people I know walk everywhere on the ground. Give me your foot?” he asks casually, the cloth poised to continue its work.

There's a long hesitation before Judal does as he's told, slowly unfolding himself to stretch out one, too-thin leg. "You never fought for me before," he quietly points out. "Not really." 

“I did.” Sinbad sits on the edge of his stool, resting Judal’s foot on his thigh as he swabs it gently clean. “You just didn’t see it. I was always fighting. Just not Kouen.”

It’s hard to know what the wrong thing to say is when he’s not sure who’s done this. Easier, because really, it’s obvious, but it’s not certain, and there’s a chance he’s wrong. Best to let Judal volunteer the information than to guess, and ruin the fragile peace they’re building.

"Wrong," is Judal's soft retort, his eyes lidded as he sinks back, exhaling another, hiccuping little breath. "You're wrong. And lying, always lying. Now, too… everyone in Al-Sarmen--they were right, when they said no one would want me."

“Hey.” Sinbad leans forward, one hand resting on Judal’s leg, the other gently cupping his cheek. “Do I look like I don’t want you? Do you think that as the High King of seven nations I make it a habit to personally wash the feet of someone I don’t want?”

No matter how he shivers and shakes again, remembering every murmured word about how he's useless, useless, unwanted, unfit to serve them, useless, Judal can't help but grasp at Sinbad's hand, at his wrist, clinging as he buries his face partially into his hand. "You don't want me," he mumbles, voice muddled as he swallows down more tears. "You j-just want something from me. There's a difference, I get it now. Well, I don't have anything, so--"

God, Judal sounds so young. 

Sinbad has never had much respect for age as an excuse. If a man is fearless, he’ll show that before his balls drop, and there’s no reason he shouldn’t conquer a nation by that time. What good is it to coddle and spoil a child, forgiving mistakes because of lack of experience, and making an adult that knows nothing but leniency?

Judal, though…

Judal sounds as young as one of his own children, a lost, lonely thing who doesn’t understand why the world is being cruel to him, knowing only the fear and pain inflicted on him, unable to stop looking for help nonetheless.

And Sinbad’s never been able to resist reaching out a hand to him.

He gathers Judal closer now, in warm, strong arms, holding him gently as he washes down the other foot. “You still have everything about you that intrigued me the first day we met,” he says softly, and damned if it isn’t true.

Judal shifts, desperate to wriggle himself closer to someone familiar and warm no matter his apparent trepidation. His face buries itself into a broad shoulder, his hands lifting to cling to Sinbad's hair, and he sniffles, chest heaving from the effort it takes not to sob. "N...none of that counts, you thought I had tits."

That actually makes Sinbad laugh, warm and genuine, gathering Judal up onto his lap. “Once I found out you didn’t, I was still plenty interested, wasn’t I? Or are we remembering very different nights?” Not that I would mind if you had tits.

"You also knew I was a Magi," Judal points out, voice muffled as he doesn't bother lifting his face. Truth be told, he's too tired to bother, especially when Sinbad is this warm and the smell of him is so pleasantly familiar. "That's… that was the first time they got mad," he mumbles. "When I tried to name you as my candidate… and you killed so many of them." 

Slowly, Sinbad’s suspicions solidify a little more, confirmed bit by bit. Surely, they is Al-Sarmen, as he’d believed for many years but not truly known until right now, who had actually attacked him in the desert that day. “I’d always wondered if you got in trouble for my escape. All I knew was that you betrayed me.”

Judal's head slowly shakes where it rests. "Didn't mean to," he drowsily replies. "I wanted to come back, but I couldn't."

To hell with the washing, Sinbad can always get new sheets. He stands, lifting Judal in one arm and the basket of food in the other, making sure to place it within easy reach of the bed. Unless he’s dead wrong, Judal will wake up starved, and the more he feels like he can rely on what he needs, the more likely he is to stay. 

He lays Judal down on the bed, resting his head next to Judal’s on the pillow. “You don’t have to worry about that anymore. Stay as long as you want.”

His eyes are far, far too heavy to open now, but Judal nods all the same, lips curving just slightly. "As long as it stays warm," he mumbles, and with that, simply drops off to sleep on his next breath. 

Perhaps half an hour passes before Ja'far leaves his post outside of Sinbad's chambers in favor of slipping into the bedroom itself, lips twisting into an even deeper frown at the sight of Judal curled into a ball upon Sinbad's bed. "I arranged another room for him, you know." Along with a dozen other things instead of enjoying a pleasant evening off, but never mind that.

There is a spark of regret that he’s failed Ja’far again, failed to loosen him up and make him relax and convince him that time off is a good thing. No, not regret--he wouldn’t do anything different, after all. The spark is merely resignation, a vague wish that it had been different, that he could make it up to Ja’far one day, but nights like these are the fulcrums upon which history turns, and Sinbad knows how to recognize them. “Right here will be fine,” he says in a low voice. Whispers draw attention, but low voices soothe. “I don’t think you could pry him out right now anyway. Al-Sarmen did something to him.”

Ja'far suppresses a snort as he drifts closer to the bed, arms folding tightly within his robes. "It was only a matter of time," he murmurs. "After how much he's disobeyed them or acted without their consent, they would have been at their wit's end." His gaze drags sharply over Judal once more. "While he's sleeping and can't argue about it, you might as well cut his hair off. There's no salvaging that mess." 

Probably true, everything Ja’far says, but that doesn’t make Sinbad prickle any less to hear it. “This could spark something large. Set Masrur on the door.” He turns, catching Ja’far’s dark eyes, and says quietly, “Find someone from Al-Sarmen. Make them talk.”

"You're inviting Al-Sarmen to our doorstep by having him here, anyway, so that shouldn't be terribly difficult," is the deadpan response. "That aside, that is hardly necessary. The technique they've used… I've seen it before." Ja'far shakes his head, frown deepening. "I didn't realize they could seal such a large quantity of magoi, however… and why they would do this to their own Magi, no matter his behavior--it makes me worry for Aladdin's safety, if they have tossed Judal aside."

“What they have done to him isn’t the information I want. I want to know why. More, I want to know what they know.” His gaze turns a bit harder, jaw firming. “I’ll worry about Aladdin. You just find someone important and make them talk. And clean up after yourself when you’re through.”

It has everything to do with Gyokuen and Kouen's armies, Judal stirring up fires that Al-Sarmen isn't ready to contain, maybe beginning to understand that they were using him--there won't be any terribly new information and you know it.

Ja'far's teeth briefly clench. "I don't want to leave you here alone with him," he says instead.

Don’t make me order you. Sinbad will, if he has to. It will make them both unhappy, but he’ll do it, put the iron in his voice and the flame in his eyes. Instead, he makes a last attempt at reason. “Maybe I’m being a fool, but I can take care of myself. He’s got no weapons, and you’ve said yourself that you know what technique they used to seal his magoi. You tell me, can he break it?”

"… If he hasn't yet, then no," Ja'far admits, stamping down the frustration in his voice. When did he become this irrational regarding Judal and his penchant for interruptions? When he ruined two fine days that would have been far better spent relaxing, and instead ended up like this. 

Maybe he is becoming a jealous wife. The thought makes him a little nauseous. "I will leave Masrur at the door," Ja'far stiffly says rather than continue his argument--one which he knows is useless, anyway--and turns with a short bow of his head. 

Ja’far cannot be bribed, or bought, or persuaded. It makes him an invaluable asset, a perfect counsellor, and an impossible romance. Sinbad knows, better than anyone. He’s tried, harder than anyone, and he knows that it had taken him nearly a year to repair the damage done by one interruption. Two, it’ll probably take him most of a decade.

He stretches out, curling an arm around Judal’s waist. Maybe when they’ve both got grey hair, Ja’far will grant him another dinner date. Sinbad will wait.

For now, he’s needed.


	7. Chapter 7

 

Al-Sarmen is never far, even within Sindria. A sobering thought, but useful all the same, because when one wants a piece of Al-Sarmen, one must always start from the bottom rungs and work their way up. 

 

Ja'far does this for three days. It yields little but the stench of their soured blood in his nose, and the overwhelming paranoia that no matter how well he's _cleaned up after himself_ , there's a piece left behind, a little wriggling shred that's far more worm than man--but god, no matter the stress of the aftermath, nothing is as satisfying as plunging his blades into them when they tell him nothing of worth, as ripping them to pieces and coming away breathless, chest heaving and eyes too wide, too green-gold and pupils slitted. 

 

He's no less angry, no matter the opportunity to vent, and no less knowledgeable, as his report begrudgingly shows. 

 

It's to the point that _he_ considers a drink to calm his nerves, as he's so obnoxiously anxious that he annoys even himself. Refraining from pacing in front of Sinbad's bedchambers is the least of his concerns--carrying on like normal is far more difficult, but it has to be done, with his own subordinates beginning to worry after a day's worth of paperwork piles up and turns to three. Finally tired of their whispers and gossip concerning perhaps the state of his health (or worse yet, his love affairs _or lack thereof_ ), Ja'far sends them away as politely as he's able, scrolls tucked under one arm as he attempts to retreat to the west-most towers and drown his stress in mundane finances. 

 

Said attempt is cut short, when the sight of a familiar blue braid dangling down the back of a child comes into view as he rounds the corner and enters the open courtyard--ah, perhaps a bit less of a child now, when all is said and done--

 

 _Please tell me the timing is coincidence._ "Aladdin--it's been some time!"

 

Aladdin stretches, his carpet folding itself neatly back into a turban as he does, turning at the sound of his name. His face breaks out into a beaming smile at the sight of the familiar face--Ja’far really hasn’t changed at all, not even his clothes, no matter that it’s been just about two years since Aladdin’s seen him. “Ja’far!”

 

He notices, now. It’s so much easier, after removing the stone in his arm, to see the pulse and swell of magic in the air as well as the rukh. The last time he’d been in Sindria, he’d had no idea how to read the magic levels of others; now, he sees just how much he’d underestimated Ja’far’s skill and power. It only makes him smile brighter; good, that his friend can take care of himself. “I didn’t think anyone would be up so early! I was, uh, kind of thinking of paying a visit to the kitchens, if that’s okay…”

 

Normally, Ja'far is the last to look for a distraction and the first to punt them out of the window. Today, however--"I'll take you," he easily offers. "We do have some new staff, and I wouldn't want them to give you any trouble. Are you planning on staying for awhile?" _How safe are you here, really? Damn it, the_ timing _, of all things_. 

 

Aladdin can’t help the way his smile slips just a bit, even as he readily latches onto Ja’far’s sleeve. “I’m not planning on staying forever,” he says first and foremost, just to make himself quite clear. “Alibaba and Mor weren’t where they said they’d be so I’m trying to find them. I figured this was a good place to start looking! Have you heard anything about either of them?” A bit distressing, to have lost the man he wants to make king, especially after his stop in Balbadd.

 

Ja'far's own expression twists wry. Case in point, why Sinbad could never quite have this Magi in his grasp--a pity, that, because he's _smart_ , and that alone makes him at least twenty dozen times more appealing than Judal. "No one is going to make you stay forever; we're just happy to have you for now," he reassures the boy as he turns to lead the way. "I have not heard from either of them, my apologies. I know Masrur has worried, too, but I'm sure it will only be a matter of time before they return… I can ask Sin about perhaps sending a… ah, no, he'll be busy when he wakes. I'll deal with it." And now the teeth grinding starts again. 

 

“Ah, don’t worry about it! I’m sure you’re very busy. I don’t mind looking around by myself,” Aladdin assures the older man, already leaning a bit forward, nose twitching towards the smell of food wafting up from the kitchens. “I’m sure Alibaba and Mor are doing fine, and at least if I’m here for a while they’ll have an easy time finding me!”

 

He does turn aside for a moment, even if his stomach growls loud enough to fill the whole hallway. “Say, Ja’far...are you okay? I know you’re not at war or anything but you seem really stressed. Did Sinbad swap the sugar with the salt again?”

 

 _Too smart_ , Ja'far corrects himself, his smile twitching just slightly. "You could say that." _If dinner was the sugar and Judal is the salt._ "Ah, but I'm fine, Aladdin," he dismisses, pulling aside the curtain on the staff entrance to the kitchen's doorway. "Worry less about me, and more about making yourself at home."

 

People don’t like being reminded of their own lies. Aladdin’s done it enough times to know that. Sometimes they get angry, sometimes they throw things, sometimes they get very quiet and stop talking completely. The best thing to do, to keep everyone happy, is to just keep quiet.

 

“You’re lying,” Aladdin says, stepping into the kitchen nonetheless. “And you’re really unhappy. You must be awfully worried about Sinbad to be that upset.”

 

Only Aladdin would come to the conclusion of _worried_ , and not intensely and disgustingly angry.

 

"… Worried is one word for it," Ja'far softly agrees, deciding that at its core, that _is_ what it is. All of this could be solved by being angry, though, so says the troublesome, illogical part of his mind that wants to just pick Judal up by his hair and throw him out the window. He can't fly anymore, it would be useful this time. "A lot has happened lately. I'm sure he'll feel inclined to fill you in on all of it." 

 

Fortunately for Ja’far, it’s been a long time since Aladdin’s had free run of a palace’s kitchens, and his mouth is watering too much for any kind of speech. A roast pheasant passes by, and he’s reduced to tugging mindlessly at Ja’far’s sleeve and pointing, little begging noises coming from his nose.

 

Not simply running up and stuffing everything into his mouth. He’s learned to ask first.

 

It's better if Aladdin is eating, and not _talking_. 

 

A wave of his hand is all the permission needed, and Ja'far drops himself down onto a stool with a sigh, resigning himself to doing a bit of bookkeeping in the kitchens while Aladdin gorges himself. Maybe by the time he's through, Sinbad and that mangy alley cat will be up. Ja'far wonders how much stale bread he can get away with giving the wretch before it becomes obvious. 

 

Eighteen oranges (and peels), four fishes, two loaves of bread, about half an ox, an amount of dates that can best be measured in handfuls, and a delicate fruit tart later, Aladdin burps, resting an arm on the wiggling contents of his belly. He can already feel it metabolizing, a proper feast like he hasn’t had in years finally restoring the flow of magoi through his body, and his brain sparks and fizzles, the world leaping into new clearer color so bright he hadn’t even realized it was gray before. 

 

He looks up finally, wiping a hand across the mess that is the bottom half of his face. “Ah,” he says belatedly, reaching for a bit of food left in one of the bowls and holding it out to Ja’far, “did you want some?”

 

They're going to need to modify the budget this month again, aren't they.

 

Ja'far delicately crosses out a zero. "No, thank you," he politely declines, smiling in open amusement. "You look happy, though. I suppose you missed our country's food while you were away?" Yes, Judal is definitely only getting stale crust.

 

“Sindrian food is the best!” Aladdin agrees readily. “Plus with all my magoi locked away I haven’t been needing to eat like that in a long time. I forgot how good it feels!” One newly-pudgy hand reaches for a napkin, remembering the table manners drilled into him over the last couple years. “I missed you too though! And Sinbad and Yamuraiha and Masrur and Drakon and Pisti and _everyone_.” He smiles, a little wistfully. “I guess I didn’t really realize how much this place felt like home until I left.”

 

Amazing, really, how much of an inverse this one is to Judal.

 

Ja'far would thank Aladdin for the wonders he's doing to his mood, but that's a bit too awkward, so instead he merely nudges the last bowl of dates in Aladdin's direction. "Well, you're always welcome to call Sindria home, regardless of where you end up traveling to. I know Sinbad has missed you as well--you'll have to pay him a quick visit before you run off again, at least." _As long as the cat is kept in a cage._ The thought of Judal somehow rubbing off on _this one_ makes Ja'far nearly snap his quill in half. 

 

He’s done eating. _Really_ , he is. 

 

Well, all right, just a few more dates.

 

Aladdin sets the empty bowl down a little sheepishly, enjoying more than he should the feeling of having his magoi totally restored. It’s been a long time since he’s had this, the feeling he could do _anything_ , could raise a dungeon or fly to the moon or suck the ocean into one big tornado, and that’s well worth the way he jiggles when he stretches. “Of course I’ll see Sinbad! I’m not running off _that_ quick.” His brow furrows slightly. Now that he’s settled in, recharged, he can feel the odd pulsing of energy around the palace, more than can be accounted for by just Ja’far’s bad mood. “Has something happened? I think maybe there’s another reason I’m here that I don’t know yet.”

 

Well. He and Sin hadn't quite discussed what to tell Aladdin, if at all.

 

Normally, he'd smile and dismiss it and let Sin tell the boy whatever story he'd like to spin. In this case, however, not only is he annoyed with Sinbad, but the situation is too dangerous to toy with as far as he's concerned, and so… 

 

"It would be best to discuss this privately," Ja'far says carefully. Sinbad is about to be awake whether he likes it or not, and frankly, Aladdin can deal with this _situation_ far better than anyone else. "Actually, if I take you to Sin now, _that_ would be best." 

 

“Okay!”

 

Aladdin hops off his stool, stomach doing a few backflips to try and arrange everything. He can feel himself shrinking already, two years without a proper feast soaking up all the magoi in his belly, and by the time they leave the kitchen, he barely has to turn sideways to get out of the door. “I wouldn’t want to put it off, not if something big is happening. Do I need to be ready for a fight?”

 

He only hopes Ja’far will answer him honestly.

 

"… I'm not sure," Ja'far admits, and no matter the seriousness of the conversation, he can't help but be _amused_ at the sight of Aladdin practically waddling. "But more than likely, yes. Honestly…" He trails off, waiting until they are at least beyond the hearing range of the kitchens, walking deeper into the palace and toward the more private chambers. "Honestly, I have worried for your safety in this, since we've realized what happened."

 

Aladdin beams up at him, taking the stairs quickly no matter his bulk. After all, he’s a lot fitter now than the last time he’d gorged himself so completely. “Then it’s a good thing I stopped by! Don’t worry, I’ve gotten a lot stronger since I left. But it’s nice of you to worry about me.” He tugs on Ja’far’s sleeve, unsure. “Which way? I never visited him on this floor before.”

 

"Ah, it's just this way," Ja'far tells him, letting Aladdin remain latched to his sleeve as he leads the way. Masrur, thankfully, still remains at Sinbad's door, unmoving and looking more bored than anything--a relief, as that means nothing out of the ordinary has happened. A light knock on the door's frame preludes Ja'far's partial entrance. "Sin? We have an important guest--"

 

Things included on a list of what he never wants to see: a far more vigorous Judal, wriggling his way up Sinbad's chest with his face partially buried in the king's neck, looking _happy_ and content and _ugh_ , can neither of them bother with getting dressed? Ja'far twitches, one arm swinging out to reflexively block Aladdin's view. "It's nearly lunchtime, _put some clothes on._ "

 

A sharp instruction to Masrur dies on Sinbad’s tongue, shifting to the slightly more (at the moment) unwelcome sight of Ja’far in the doorway--as it is most of the time, a reminder that he’s misbehaving.

 

But really, is it misbehaving when he’s worked so hard to get Judal to this point, relaxed and content?

 

(All right, it hasn’t so much been work as it has been keeping the boy fed and letting him pounce whenever he feels like it, which is pretty much the opposite of work, but it’s certainly required time nonetheless.)

 

One of Sinbad’s hands comes to Judal’s hair--nice and clean courtesy of several hours’ work yesterday--and starts to urge him away, only to freeze at the sight of the second person in the doorway--and a very familiar shock of a bright blue braid, hidden behind one of Ja’far’s sleeves.

 

Small hands come up to push at the sleeve, curious. “What’s happening? Is it boobs?”

 

"It's far more obscene. Don't look, Aladdin," Ja'far flatly chides. It's worth it, almost, to watch Judal visibly tense up at the _name_ , the sound of the younger Magi's voice, and to watch his face twist in something akin to stress and worry and shame and _fear_.

 

No, it's _definitely_ worth it, especially when Judal is off of Sinbad in a second, diving underneath the bed coverings and promptly yanking a pillow over his head, to boot. 

 

Ja'far tries not to smile, his mood suddenly _infinitely_ better. "At least pull up a sheet, _Sin_." He might sound a bit too satisfied. Oh well.

 

“You said it could be dangerous,” Aladdin protests. “I can’t even see.”

 

Sinbad shoots Ja’far something like a glare, deigning under obvious protest to pull a sheet up to his hips. Never mind that he’ll have to spend probably _hours_ convincing Judal again that he’s safe here, that he’s taken care of, that no one is going to barge in and threaten him because after all, it’s _the High King’s bedroom_. “Talk of obscenity is rich coming from someone who feels no need to knock.”

 

"My deepest apologies, _Your Majesty_ ," is Ja'far's drawl to follow as he finally lowers his sleeve, "but considering who our guest is and how dire our current situation, I felt it was imperative that he have an audience with you immediately."

 

“Interesting, that our situation is so _dire_ when you’ve given me no reports of your activity in several days.” Nevertheless, Sinbad stretches out, a genuinely warm smile on his face at the sight of the boy. “Aladdin, you’ve grown so much, and I don’t just mean sideways!”

 

The rukh pulses around Sinbad--it always has, in a dance of light and dark, and Aladdin breaks out into a smile to see that the dark is no farther than the last time, at least not that he can see. “And you look exactly the same as when I met you,” he points out, laughing. “And…” 

 

The smile fades as he focuses--and focuses again--and again--on the quivering lump beneath the sheets. His breath comes shorter, and he swallows hard, a sudden lump in his throat. “W-what is--no, it can’t--”

 

The rukh _can’t_ just _leave_ someone.

 

"The _written_ reports are on your desk, which you would have found if you had deigned to leave your bed," Ja'far blandly retorts, a hand lifting to Aladdin's shoulder to gently coax him further into the room. "Sinbad, if you would--"

 

"No!" It's a muffled protest, but high and panicky enough beneath layers of sheets and a particularly heavy pillow to be heard all the same. "Make him _leave!_ "

 

Aladdin knows that voice, muffled as it is. Knowing who it is--knowing who the lump in the blankets _must_ be--is even more frightening. His skin prickles, clammy in a cold sweat, and how can Sinbad and Ja’far even be in a room with something like that and not want to _faint_?

 

“It’s Judal, isn’t it?” he says, voice shaking, and not bothering to hide it. He looks up at Ja’far, confused, more than a little terrified, a hundred questions on his lips boiling down to a single word. “How?”

 

Sinbad pokes his head under the edge of the covers, taking one of Judal’s hands in his own. “It’s all right, no one is going to hurt you. I promised, didn’t I?”

 

Ja'far thinks he should probably attempt to muster some pity into his expression, lest Aladdin think him entirely cold-hearted.

 

It's impossible, though. He feels no pity for Judal, even knowing what has been done to him. More than anything, the sight of seeing _Aladdin_ so frightened spikes anger swiftly through his veins, and makes him want to hunt down another dozen members of Al-Sarmen and gut them while they still live, all for the sake of making _sure_ none of them can lay a hand on _this one_ and turn him into the shell that _Judal_ is. 

 

He takes a deep breath instead. "Al-Sarmen's power," he quietly explains, and he kneels, the hand on Aladdin's shoulder turning him from facing the bed. "They have methods of sealing a person's magoi entirely… I was unaware that they could do it to this scale, but obviously…" Ja'far sighs, shaking his head. "You see now, why we are concerned for _your_ safety." 

 

"--no no no no I don't want him in here don't want him to see me _don't_ \--" It's a mindless, panicky little run-on, and Ja'far glances over briefly to watch the lump shake that much more.

 

Aladdin couldn’t move if he wanted to. The idea of someone’s power being able to _seal away_ the rukh, to cut off that connection completely, leave them without any access to the ebb and flow of the universe--it’s monstrous, terrifying, and chills him to the bone.

 

Judal had been dangerous, before. If it hadn’t been for Ugo, he might have killed Aladdin, or some of his friends. He tries to remind himself of that, but all he can see is Sinbad looking worried, petting the quivering, panicking lump, and his heart hurts. No one, _no one_ , no matter what they’ve done or been in the past, should ever have to live without feeling the rukh.

 

He should ask permission first, he knows. But, well, he won’t. 

 

He closes his eyes, and the rukh swells at his command, fluttering about him like so many butterflies’ wings. _Go to him_ , he urges silently. _Help him._

 

The rukh cannot find him. No one, they tell him, is there. Not a man or a dog or a rock. Not even the air is there.

 

Aladdin sits down on the floor, all the blood drained from his face.

 

"Aladdin--" There's no guilt felt in terrorizing Judal, but this sort of a reaction from Aladdin--that's different. Ja'far sucks in a slow breath, wrapping one arm around the boy, scrolls discarded in favor of pulling him close in an attempt to reassure him. "Let me help you outside, you need some fresh air." 

 

“Can’t you see?” Aladdin’s voice is higher than it should be, just on the verge of hysterical. “Ja’far he’s--” 

 

He clings to the older man’s robes, still not steady on his feet, on the verge of passing out even as he begs the rukh, _try again, please!_

 

Sinbad’s eyes narrow, knowing full well what Ja’far has and hasn’t told Aladdin--which is to say, pretty much nothing. “You didn’t warn him.”

 

"It was my mistake." He really is becoming too petty. Ja'far's jaw clenches as he simply wraps both arms around Aladdin, scooping him up as he climbs to his feet. "Let's calm down before you try again," he quietly tells the boy on his way out of the room. "You need to think about what to do first, if you really want to help him." He shoots a quick glance over his shoulder before the door shuts at his heels. _Get dressed, Sin, and join us at some point. Your stray cat can shiver by his lonesome for five minutes._

 

As soon as the door shuts, Sinbad wraps his arms around the shivering lump that is Judal, bedclothes and all. “They’re gone. You can come out, it’s just me, I’m sorry, I didn’t know Ja’far was going to do that. I didn’t even know Aladdin was in town.” God, how long is it going to take him to get Judal back to the smiles of this morning? Patience, that’s the key. Patience is almost _always_ the key.

 

The utterance of that _name_ makes him shudder anew, no matter how the lump tries to wriggle its way closer to Sinbad, burying into his chest. "Don't want him to see me," is the muffled whisper. "I… not _him._ " 

 

“Fine.”

 

Sinbad carefully folds back the covers, exposing Judal’s face so he can see they’re alone, holding him close to his chest. “Just the two of us, see? I won’t let that happen again.” He pauses for a moment, then adds, “Unless...if you think he could _help_ …”

 

Judal's head shakes firmly, eyes darting around briefly just to make _sure_ before he reaches up to grab hold of Sinbad's hair. "He can't." His lower lip trembles. "No one can, that's what they said. It's better--it's just better if I don't have to _see him._ " 

 

 _Well, of course Al-Sarmen would say that,_ Sinbad wants to say, but lets that pass for the moment. Badgering the point wouldn’t help at all, not when Judal is so delicate, so shaken. If Aladdin can figure something out, he’ll give the boy another shot-- _after_ he’s talked Judal into it, and gotten at least nominal permission. For now, the most he can hope for is calming him down. 

 

He places gentle kisses over Judal’s forehead, the edge of his mouth, holding him close. “Fine. Just us. No one else.”

 

"Ja'far wants to kill me," Judal adds, suddenly so _tired_ that all he can do is sag, flopping forward into Sinbad's chest with a little, lingering shudder. "If you ever don't want me to stay anymore, just let him."

 

“Don’t say that.” It’s an immediate reaction, but no less of a knee-jerk. He buries his nose in Judal’s hair, hands stroking slowly up and down his back. “Al-Sarmen,” he says quietly, “lied to you from the day they ripped you out of your mother’s arms. And when they told you your only worth was in serving them, that was a lie, too.”

 

Judal's head shakes slowly. "Being a Magi was the only thing I was good at," he mumbles into Sinbad's shoulder. "And I guess… I wasn't very good at that, either, if they could just throw me away. Maybe just magic, then? Dunno. Either way, I'm not good at anything now. I'm not worth anything, to you or them or anyone else." 

 

It’s a dark part of Sinbad’s mind that knows Judal is wrong--he is still of use, as the most potent source of information they’ve ever had about Al-Sarmen at the top, about their powers and their capabilities, and oh, if he could figure out how to seal someone’s magoi the impending war would be _over_ before it started--

 

But more than that...just the way Judal lays on him, buries his face in Sinbad’s chest… “You have worth to me,” he says quietly. “Just as you are. Or I wouldn’t be here.”

 

"You're stupid." Muffled, a little cracked around the edges, but sort of affectionate, too, even if there's disbelief in every word. 

 

Sinbad laughs, and tugs the blankets over both of them. “Probably.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

“It’s just going to be a couple hours.” Sinbad has tried easing Judal into the idea but really, it’s gotten to the point where there’s nothing else he can do. “They need me on the border to sign this treaty, but I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’ve locked and magicked the door and window, so no one will bother you.” He cups Judal’s chin in his hand, unable to quell the worry at the idea of leaving Judal alone. “Will you be all right?”

 

Judal's lips twist, and he almost, _almost_ asks for Sinbad to take him with him. It would be a stupid request, of course, and not even one he really wants because it means he'd be around so many people… but he'd probably feel better all the same, even hidden under a cloak and clinging to the man's arm. "… I'll be fine," he says all the same, hating the lurch of dread that comes with the words. He hates more feeling so dependent, so _useless_ , and so he leans back and away, the long, loose length of his hair following the movement. It's near impossible to deal with minus magic, even between the two of them--god, it's stupid how the thought of cutting it, even a bit, makes him nauseous. _At least let me keep this much, Life._ "Bring me back something sweet to eat, at least." 

 

Sinbad slides a hand into the thick silky mess of Judal’s hair, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and god, it’s kind of nice to be able to spoil someone--even if he is a bit excited at the idea of having a quick break. “Whatever the local delicacy is, I’ll bring you two.” He fastens the headdress onto his hair, clinking the last of the jewelry in place. “When you next see me, I’ll be the High King of eight countries. Try to get some more sleep,” he adds at the door, as if Judal doesn’t spend almost every waking moment dozing against his chest.

 

"Okay."

 

The door shuts, and he's back to feeling alone again.

 

Judal sighs as his back hits the bed, eyes trained up towards the ceiling. He's not tired, not really. He's not even hungry, though he guesses he could eat if he gets bored enough… 

 

What did he ever _do_ with himself before all of this happened, anyway? Eventually, he settles on trying to braid his hair, which should kill an hour or so, at the very least.

 

“I could help you with that, if you want,” comes a voice from the window.

 

He jumps nearly out of his skin, ending up in a tangle of his hair in the process. Instinct bids him to dive underneath the covers, though without Sinbad here, the idea is stupid and worthless because there's no one to protect him and--fuck, _fuck_ this is stupid, and _god_ how he hates not being able to do anything for _himself._

 

So, Judal doesn't hide, no matter how he wants to, especially upon realizing _who_ is at the window. His face burns as his mind flips through every meeting he and Aladdin have ever had, every attempt he's made to ruin or end the other Magi's life, and there's no small degree of shame that shifts to panic and terror off and on. _He could kill me, he has every right to, this is stupid, why is he here--_ "Go away." 

 

Aladdin has spent hours--days, really--preparing himself for this meeting. That doesn’t make it any easier, make him any less terrified to see the frightened young man on Sinbad’s bed. And Judal has every right to be afraid, of course. Aladdin knows that, fears what Judal is, what apparently _anyone_ could be, so much that it’s taken him until now to try and talk to he older boy.

 

He lands lightly on the window, walking through Sinbad’s barrier as if it had never been. It’s a good one, and probably would have given him trouble before he’d learned so much about his magic. Well, all right, it would have forced him to break it before, where now he simply walks through, extending a hand he hopes isn’t shaking. “I braid my own hair every day. I could help you with yours, if you want,” he offers again. “And we can...talk.”

 

He can't sense or see the magic that Aladdin uses, or what he drifts through as if it truly is nonexistent, but it makes him immediately angry-- _jealous_ \--all the same. 

 

Judal's jaw clenches and he looks pointedly away, hands gripping at his own hair possessively as he flops back onto his side, his back stubbornly left to Aladdin. If he's going to kill him, there's no contest, anyway. Why bother fighting it? "Your hair isn't like mine. Just go away, I don't need your help."

 

“You must be lonely.” 

 

Aladdin stops short of the bed, arms crossed in front of his chest, almost hugging himself. He’d thought he could handle it, being around this horrifying sight. No matter how he urges the rukh to _go to him,_ it gets confused, wanting to help him, wanting to serve him, but unable to understand what he means. He tries prodding at Judal with his magoi, but it, like the rukh, simply curves around him as if there’s nothing there. 

 

Not even an absence, not even a void. Judal is cut off, so completely that it can’t even find him.

 

"You must be deaf. I told you to leave me alone." 

 

Aladdin doesn't even get it. Judal can imagine, far too clearly, the sight of the rukh that would be curling around the kid, so bright and white that it hurt his eyes every time. Imagining it is bad enough, especially when Aladdin is here--probably poking at him like a dead fish or something, which he feels about as well as someone trying to breathe on him from over twenty miles away. 

 

Aladdin doesn't _get_ why, with all of that in mind, Judal just wants him to leave.

 

"You should be happy." It comes out dull and tired. "There are only three Magi now, just like there should be, and none of them use black rukh. Rejoice about it already."

 

“It can’t find you.” He wants to be calm, for Judal’s sake, but the horror of it is enough to make him shiver. “It--it wants to, you know. It misses you.”

 

Aladdin takes a step closer, his toes almost touching the bed. “It’s been telling me how much it misses you since the first time I met you. It loves you."

 

Nothing, not everything Al-Sarmen has done, not Kouen turning his nose up at him like he's trash, not the thought of Sinbad never, _ever_ being able to be his king, has ever his chest clench and twist like _that_.

 

" _Nothing_ loves me." Judal tries for a scoff. It's a little too wet to be convincing and he already just wants to die. "Shut up about it already." 

 

“But it _does_ ,” Aladdin insists, climbing onto the bed now, kneeling by the edge. “It just can’t _find_ you. Why won’t you let me try to help you?”

 

He’d known instinctively, even the very first time they’d met and Judal had tried to kill him, that there was something hurting very badly in the older boy, something lost and alone. Now that all the power has been stripped away, that’s all there is left.

 

It hurts even to see.

 

"There's nothing you can _do!_ "

 

His chest heaves as he twists around, eyes wet and too-bright as he tries to glare. "Do you think I haven't seen this before?! I've watched Al-Sarmen _perfect it_ , I--" He swallows hard, shaking as he lets his head fall back into the mattress, twisting to curl himself into a ball again. "Even if you could--and you _can't_ \--I don't even… want you to." 

 

It's a lie. Not a very good one, but a lie nonetheless, a lie that makes him shudder and shake and hurt. He _wants it_ \--wants it more than anything, the rush of power back through every part of his body, strength and security at his fingertips, worshipful gazes and everyone _fearing him_ \--

 

Aladdin won't give him that back. What's an Oracle without followers dropping to their knees, and that aside, what if his rukh was as crystal clear and pale as Aladdin's when returned? _It won't love me, it'll hate me, it'll be the same as now but even worse_. 

 

“Have you ever seen a Magi try?” Aladdin asks simply. It’s not that he wants to flaunt his power--not that he even _likes_ doing it--but it can certainly be useful at times. Living without that extra power, as _just_ a magician, has gone a long, long way towards teaching him respect for just how much the rukh swells within him.

 

And Judal is afraid. Very, very afraid, and very, very sad. “You have to want it back,” Aladdin says practically. “It’s a part of you. It _is_ you. It’s...it’s the _rukh_.” 

 

He bites his lip, asking softly, hardly wanting to know which answer would be worse, “Can you still see it?”

 

That question is the _worst._

 

He wants to torment Aladdin, to tell him how Al-Sarmen would _make him try_ to restore that link on lesser humans, an active participant in their little experiments that would eventually be turned on _him._ So yes--he's seen a Magi try, he's _that Magi._ But he can't even open his mouth to try and snap all of that out, not with how his expression crumples, eyes squeezing tightly shut and his knees drawn up to his chest as he shakes his head, biting a hole through his lip. 

 

 _I can't, I can't at all and I never thought I'd miss seeing that idiot king's turn weird colors or how it tries to all but_ nibble _on me or--_

 

Aladdin scoots closer instinctively, no matter how the idea of being close to something so tragic makes his last meal shiver in his stomach. Probably not polite to start playing with Judal’s hair yet, but he reaches out a hand anyway, lightly touching Judal’s shoulder.

 

It would be misery. To not see the flutter and pulse of the rukh, the way it warms his skin like the sun’s heat, the rush of it as it swirls around him, letting him know that he is _wanted_ , he is _loved_ , to not see the way the universe _breathes_ with it after growing up seeing it…

 

The rukh cries out for the one it’s lost.

 

Judal jerks, tensing and trying to shrug away Aladdin's hand without having to touch it himself. "J-just… go away already." What part of that doesn't the kid understand? His face hurts from trying not to cry, his chest still far too tight for him to even breathe, and it's a struggle even to argue. "You're not even supposed to be in here, the stupid king left those shields up for a reason and I don't need your help anyway, so--"

 

“I didn’t think you were one for shields very much,” Aladdin says lightly, even as he pokes and prods and even tries ramming Judal with the rukh, all to no avail. “Then again, I didn’t think you liked Sinbad very much either. You’re always calling him stupid.”

 

"Yeah, well, he's _my_ stupid king, even if I don't like him that much." Judal prickles and twitches, just _imagining_ what Aladdin must be doing and that's more annoying than anything. "Fucking stop it already." 

 

Aladdin brightens, scooting forward until he’s nearly sitting on Judal’s hair. “You can feel it? Maybe some of it’s coming back!”

 

"I can't feel anything, I was just guessing," Judal mutters, reaching for his hair to snatch the majority of it over his shoulder before Aladdin can touch it. "You always have a look on your face whenever you're messing with your magic, so it's easy to figure out."

 

Aladdin flops down on his back, looking up at Judal from the vicinity of his feet. “You have really interesting eyes. Why do you wear so much makeup?” 

 

The only people who wear makeup are girls.

 

Hmm…

 

Well, it can’t hurt to _check_ , Aladdin reassures himself, reaching out a hand.

 

His foot swiftly connects with Aladdin's head, and Judal's chest heaves with a heavy, irritated huff. "The hell is wrong with you?! Do I _look_ like a girl? Why does everyone always have to check?! Get _out_ already and stop _bugging_ me!"

 

“I check almost everyone!” Aladdin protests, grinning sheepishly as he rubs his head. “Well, not _everyone_. Just the ones with really big asses or who wear a lot of makeup or who are really pretty like you.” He shrugs. “I just really like girls.”

 

Judal just _stares_ \--though he can't help but ask in a very, very flat deadpan: "Did you ever check Freckles?" _Sometimes I still wonder._

 

“Oh, Ja’far? Yeah.” Aladdin sighs, a years-old disappointment still fresh in his heart.

 

"Figured as much," Judal mutters, flopping back down and yanking a pillow over to bury his face into. "Well, either way, get out. I told you there's nothing you can do and I don't want you poking at me anymore."

 

Aladdin rolls over, poking at Judal’s side in a far more physical sense, less with the rukh. “Hey, Judal...how come there are only supposed to be three Magi? Why did I bother you so much?”

 

He's deaf. He _has_ to be fucking deaf. Judal's skin twitches beneath the touch, like a horse attempting to get rid of a fly. "Because you're weird and mess things up. It doesn't matter now, though, _obviously._ "

 

“But I didn’t mess anything up. I didn’t do anything except try to help my friends out.” If anyone had been good at messing things up, it had _definitely_ been Judal, and they both know it. “I guess it’s more fair now if Sindria and Kou go to war, huh? Since neither of them will have a Magi?”

 

"… I never chose Gyokuen or Kouen, so they were still pretty even in that regard, anyway." _And that's why Al-Sarmen was so angry with me, but that doesn't matter now, either._ Judal sighs, twisting around to scowl at Aladdin. "Speaking of which, you picked that stupid blond kid a long while ago… 'baba something, whatever. You should stop making the stupid king think that you haven't yet, he doesn't have a chance with me any more, after all."

 

“Alibaba,” Aladdin agrees. “I think he’ll be a great king someday. I’m not sure how, though. He keeps giving kingdoms away. And I can’t find him.”

 

His brow furrows, and he flops back, staring up at the ceiling. “I think it would make Sinbad mad if I told him I already chose, though.”

 

"He'll be madder if you keep stringing him along." Ugh, he should be happy about that, not giving Aladdin advice on how to avoid it. Judal snorts, rubbing his face down into the pillow that smells so very much like the king in question. "You're stupid, too, though. Why would you pick someone like that Alibaba kid when Sinbad is so much stronger? Alibaba can't even conquer any new dungeons you raise." 

 

“I’m not just looking for the strongest king. I’m looking for the _best_ king.” Aladdin grins cheerfully, unable to help himself from reaching out to touch the end of Judal’s hair. “And I think you were, too. It’s not hard to tell who’s stronger between Kouen and Sinbad, is it? And Sinbad can’t conquer any more dungeons either.”

 

"Al-Sarmen thinks Kouen is stronger," Judal mutters, eyes flickering down to watch where Aladdin's hand is going. Ugh, whatever. Maybe he can make better sense of the mess of his hair than Sinbad can. "A lot of Sinbad's dungeons were mine, though, so even if he can't conquer any more of them, they're all _good._ Your candidate just has a weird fat ass."

 

“He just wears really bad clothes.” Aladdin, taking the lack of another kick to the head as permission, happily sets to work on braiding the long mess of Judal’s hair with nimble, quick fingers. “His ass isn’t really that big. At least, it wasn’t the last time I saw him, but he likes eating almost as much as I do.”

 

"He's probably a whale by now," Judal airily replies, shifting uncomfortably for just a moment more before surrendering. Well, if it means his hair can stay in one piece and not be a total mess all the time, it's worth tolerating, he supposes. "His djinn's fat, too."

 

“Nah, I bet Amon got thin after he gave birth.” Aladdin frowns slightly, tucking a stray curl into place. “I wonder what kind of baby he had?”

 

"…That's creepy," Judal says after a short pause, turning his head to stare at him. "You realize that's creepy, right?"

 

Aladdin shrugs. “I guess it depends on what kind of baby it was. I had a nightmare once that it was a baby old man and he was pregnant with _another_ baby old man. That was pretty creepy.”

 

"… What the hell is wrong with you?"

 

“My old roommate said it was because I grew up by myself with only Ugo as a friend, but I think it’s just how I am,” Aladdin says with a carefree shrug. He’s nearly halfway down the braid, and even if it isn’t the same kind as his own, it’s at least not spread out all over the bed.

 

 _You're_ something _, that's for sure._

 

Judal snorts, stretching over to a small side table to pluck up one of the ties they were attempting to use on his hair earlier, to no avail. "Here," he mutters, reaching back to drop it in Aladdin's lap. "For when you finish."

 

“Thanks!” Aladdin winds the tie around his wrist, folding strand after strand into place as he goes. “So, you never answered me. Why do you wear so much makeup?”

 

"I don't know." _Sinbad likes it. Kouen always did, too. Kougyoku would always try and paint my nails, weird brat. When you're constantly dressed up in formal things, it becomes a habit. A dozen reasons._ "I always have, what's it matter?"

 

“It makes you look really pretty. But I don’t think I’d look the same way if I did it, or if Alibaba did. How did you know it would make you look good?”

 

"You'd look weird, your candidate awful," Judal bluntly mutters, sighing as he presses his cheek down into the pillow again. "And I don't know, _I_ didn't decide to go and start wearing it. It just became a habit after awhile because I was expected to look good. I guess I could stop now." 

 

Aladdin blinks, confused, as he ties off the end of Judal’s braid. “But it makes you look so pretty. I bet girls think you look really good too,” he ends on a dreamy sigh, flopping his head down onto Judal’s leg.

 

"Girls are a pain in the ass." Skeptically, he pulls his braid over his shoulder, surprised to find it done up so… nicely. "I never had time for them and I'm glad, they're just annoying." 

 

Aladdin barely hears him, now that he’s moved onto his favorite subject. “The way they smell and move and _bounce_ and smile and laugh and smell and _bounce_ and…” He trails off, eyes misted over. “You smell good too, though.”

 

Judal's eyes roll, and he wiggles his leg a bit to get Aladdin's head off of him. If he's going to talk about girls, then he can _really_ leave. He hears enough of Sinbad's mumblings about women when the man is sleeping (and when he isn't), after all. "Yeah, thanks. It's nice not being disgusting and mangy, imagine that."

 

“Yeah, that is nice,” Aladdin agrees, nodding without letting his head be budged from Judal’s leg. Judal’s warm, and Aladdin hadn’t realized how _cold_ it is outside until he wriggled down into the covers, and the softness there. It’s been a long time since the softness of Sindrian beds, after all. “It’ll be nice to take really nice long baths again. We didn’t have them in Laem much.”

 

Ugh. Why does he have to lay on him like that? Judal sighs, giving up after another squirm, and burrowing himself down into the bed as well. "Great, so go take one. I'm sure it's more fun than being here."

 

“Later. I like being here with you.” Aladdin turns over, resting his cheek on Judal’s lower thigh, looking up with bright blue eyes. “Besides, if I left I’d just be wondering if you were doing okay.”

 

"… You're as stupid as Sinbad is," Judal mutters, turning his face away and into his pillow--never mind that he can still _feel_ that stare on him. "I'm fine." 

 

_Can’t you see he needs you?_

 

They can’t. They want him, and it distresses them--he’s not alive, but he’s not with them either, and they want to love him like they always have. Somehow, Aladdin had thought it might be easier, to show them the way when he was touching Judal, but he’d been wrong. “How old were you when you turned?”

 

"What?" It's a question that throws him, mostly because it's something he's never been asked before, not even by _Sinbad._  

 

Also, because Judal doesn't quite remember--nor can he really think of it as being 'turned' when rukh turning black beneath his touch, or flowing as dark as night around him is all he can honestly recall. 

 

"I don't know. Younger than you, probably."

 

“Does it feel different?” Aladdin watches the rukh pulse in the air, bending around Judal as if the space he occupies doesn’t even exist, whispering to him, filling him with life and light. “When you used it, what did it feel like?”

 

Now he's getting irritated. "Like rukh, I don't know--the same as always, but… well. It's stronger, you know. Wilder, harder to control. It'd probably eat you," he dryly adds.

 

“Maybe,” Aladdin concedes. “You’re the strongest person I ever fought. Were you always that strong or did you have teachers?”

 

Really irritated. "I don't remember ever _not_ having teachers, but magic's the only thing I've ever been good at. So both? I dunno." 

 

Aladdin blows out a long breath, fiddling with the end of Judal’s braid again. The hair is so different from his own, thick and coarse and soft and the same time somehow, a bit like Judal himself. “Did you ever wish you had another Magi to talk to?”

 

"No." It's a bald-faced lie. No one understood, really, even if they could speak of rukh academically on the same level. Even Sinbad, a man far stronger and more capable than even his best teachers, would sort of glaze over if Judal even tried, give him a pat on the head, and silence him with a kiss or something else. "The other two are old and crazy, and I never knew you existed until a few years ago. Why do you have to keep touching my hair?" Judal adds, exasperated.

 

“You have really nice hair!” Aladdin says, as if that’s an explanation. “It’s really long and thick. And it smells nice, too. You smell like a girl.” One of his highest compliments, and almost a dreamy look back in his eyes.

 

Judal settles for staring again. "… Tell that to the stupid king, it's his borrowed perfume." Watch it be indeed a woman's. _Just watch it be._ Judal thinks he'll hit Sinbad later for that. "Look, just quit it. I don't like people touching it, they always mess it up."

 

“I won’t mess it up! I know it’s not the same kind of braid you’re used to, but I’m sure it’ll stay in place!” Aladdin’s eyes are wide, earnest, almost pleading.

 

God, he wants to kill the brat. "Why can't you just leave me alone?" Judal spits out, grabbing his braid to yank it away with a huff. "You're not doing me any favors, talking about magic like this, you know! I'm never going to be able to use it again, so you might as well just let me forget about it."

 

“But you won’t.” Aladdin sits up, and it’s not pity in his voice, but the knowledge of the ages. “You know you won’t. You can’t forget it and no one else will understand how much it means because no one else is made of it like we are.”

 

"See, that right there makes me want to kill you," Judal mutters, rolling over onto his back and yanking a pillow over his face. Maybe if he tries hard enough, he can suffocate himself. "At least stop talking about it." 

 

Aladdin isn’t worried about Judal’s rather homocidal streak. It’s not like he can really do anything anymore, though Aladdin’s hardly going to say that to Judal’s face. “I thought the rukh was the only thing that would ever love me,” he says frankly, unvarnished with any self-pity or even much sadness. “It raised me, you know.”

 

"What the hell do you _want_ from me?" The pillow flies off, smacking into Aladdin instead as Judal tries not to start shaking again. He was doing _good_ , he wasn't thinking about it, and he was tolerating this kid just fine and now--"What do you want me to _say?_ I don't even want it back, so what does any of it _matter?!_ "

 

“How long do you think you can keep treating people like that?” Aladdin asks simply. “I think you want to be here awfully bad. It’s okay to be sad about what you lost, but if you try and make other people suffer for it, you’ll only hurt yourself.”

 

"Fine. I hope Sinbad kills me, then. Or maybe his pet snake, or even _you_." Judal snorts, looking to the side. "It's only a matter of time before Sinbad gets tired of me, anyway, or realizes I'm really not worth anything to him."

 

“I don’t think Sinbad is that kind of person.” Aladdin blinks up at Judal. “Do you think he’ll get rid of me when he finds out I chose Alibaba as my king? Or have Ja’far kill me?”

 

"Catch him in a poor enough mood, and maybe he will," is Judal's tired response. "You don't know how that guy thinks."

 

Aladdin smiles up at him. “I’m sure you’re right. I haven’t known him as long as you, I think. Did you always want him to be your king?”

 

"… Yeah." Ugh. Check that off on a list of things he can't lie about, and doesn't even want to. "He almost said yes, once."

 

“I can’t tell whether he really wants a Magi or not,” Aladdin muses thoughtfully. “He knows the other Magi, right? But he doesn’t try to go after them or impress them or anything.” He flops down onto his stomach, still a bit of a jiggle after all. “Hey, Judal, how do you raise a dungeon? I was thinking of trying it.”

 

As much as he'd like to go off on a tirade about Sinbad and how fucking obnoxious the man is, _that_ question makes him stop short and turn his head back to stare. "… You're kidding, right? You've… never done it?" 

 

Aladdin shakes his head, braid waving from side to side. “Nope! I never knew how. And besides, Alibaba’s magoi is all full up with Amon, so I didn’t need to make my king candidate stronger. I thought it might be fun, though. And dungeons really give people something to try hard and work for, too!”

 

What a _waste_. 

 

Judal has to laugh. He can't help it, when Aladdin's logic is so base and stupid and--geez, why did he pick that stupid blond kid, anyway? Another waste. "Dungeons _kill people_ ," he reminds the boy with an amused snort. "And besides, I already told you. I don't want to talk about magic anymore. Are you sure you aren't deaf?" 

 

“They don’t have to go in,” Aladdin points out practically. “It’s not that I want anyone to die. But if people know that there’s something they can do that doesn’t care how much money they have or if they were born a slave--even if they know it might kill them--they’ll have more hope. Maybe.” He frowns, and the ground gives a bit of a shake. “Hmm. No, that doesn’t feel right.”

 

"Don't do it in _here!_ " If Aladdin wrecks Sindria, he's really going to kill him with his bare hands. "Or on this stupid island at all, for this matter," Judal protests as he pushes himself upright, shoving his braid over his shoulder. "At least do it over open water if you want it _around_ here… ugh, but don't, you'll put Sinbad in a bad mood." 

 

“Why?” Aladdin sits back onto his heels, blinking up. “He was happy enough to send us on the last dungeon quest. And I don’t care where I do it, I just want to try. It’s what I’m supposed to do as a Magi, right? Choose a king and raise dungeons?”

 

"Something like that…" Judal heaves a sigh as he leans back onto his hands. "Look, just don't do it around here. Go to the mainland or something if you want to play with it that badly, but don't expect me to teach you anything." 

 

Aladdin cocks his head, leaning forward until they’re just a few inches apart. “Why not? You’re the only person who knows how except Yunan and Scheherezadhe.”

 

There's a moment when Judal actually understands those comments about personal space that have been directed to him in the past, and he slinks back, scowling. "Yeah, so? Go track one of them down if you want lessons, I'm done with magic."

 

Aladdin hesitates for a moment, then starts to remove his turban. “Do you want me to use the wisdom of Solomon on you? It might help.”

 

" _No._ " It's too fast, definitely too nervous, and Judal tries not to think about what happened the last time Aladdin used that on him--impossble, when the memory is so fresh even from years prior. "I _don't_." 

 

Aladdin is tempted to do it anyway, even though he’s fairly sure it won’t help--at least, that it’s not the key that unlocks this particular lock. Still, he puts the turban back on with a shrug of resignation. “I thought you might not like it. Not everyone does.”

 

What a fucking understatement. "Yeah, ending up passed out on the floor afterwards is not my idea of a good time, thanks," Judal mutters, skipping two dozen other details to go along with that. "Just… don't." 

 

“If you passed out here I’d take care of you,” Aladdin says, without the slightest hint of artifice or begrudging. “I’d make sure you didn’t hit your head or anything too. You’re pretty small, I could probably pick you up.”

 

"I'm not that small! I'm taller than you." A snort follows. For the shortest of moments, Judal considers it--the possibility that Aladdin can fix all of it with just one bit of magic--only to shove the thoughts promptly away again. "I don't need you to take care of me, either." 

 

“You might be taller, but I got a lot stronger! My teacher in Laem made us do a lot of exercise.” All those pull-ups, imagining getting his face high enough to rub against those perfect breasts. All those push-ups, imagining laying his head down into those perfect breasts. All those laps around the track, imagining the finish line just _filled_ with...yeah.

 

The expression on Aladdin's face when he's saying as much is just creepy. "… Great, good for you. I--" _Used to be pretty strong. Never mind, I'm a twig now._ "Don't you have some girl to go flirt with or something?" Aladdin's easy to distract, if nothing else. "I'm tired and Sinbad wanted me to sleep while he was gone, so…"

 

A little shadow flits across Aladdin’s face, and he flops facedown on the bed. “Don’t wanna go by myself.”

 

"Well, I'm not going with you," Judal mutters, flopping backwards in turn. "Talk to Ja'far, he sure as hell hasn't been getting any lately."

 

“Ja’far’s in a pretty bad mood. I think he’s scared.” That makes Aladdin sad, so he changes the subject, flopping over onto his back to pillow his head on his arm. “Is Sinbad a good kisser?”

 

_Good. I hope he's terrified, and I hope it's because of--_

 

And then his thoughts do a little hiccup.

 

There's no reason they _should._ Come to think of it, he's never been particularly secretive about his … whatever his relationship is with Sinbad is. That being said, it's more with people that didn't _care_ (the majority of the Kou empire) or found it potentially _useful_ in some way (all of Al-Sarmen) that he didn't censor himself around. Talking about it on a personal level, about how Sinbad kisses--something beyond whether or not his rukh is stained a bit more black today, or when will he hurry up and come to their side or sign his country away because of Judal's manipulating--is entirely different. 

 

His face is hot, and stuffing it partially into a pillow doesn't help. "… Yeah. I guess. What do you care, you're not kissing him."

 

“I was just wondering why you’d want to kiss him instead of a girl.” Aladdin absently runs his fingertips over his own lips, staring up at the ceiling. “I think girls are nicer to kiss. So you must be pretty good at it if Sinbad wants to kiss you instead of a girl, right?”

 

Then he frowns, blinking. “But girls like kissing boys, so I guess not everyone thinks girls are better. Huh. I never thought of it that way.”

 

"… If you're trying to figure out whether or not I'm a girl again…" Judal lowly warns, skin flushing hotter at the stupidity of this conversation. "But yeah, I know _I'm_ good at it. Girls are annoying, at least all the ones I've met." Even Kougyoku, spineless, lovestruck Kougyoku, who just wanted to hear him talk about Sinbad all day… ugh. "Sinbad's annoying and dumb, but he's still better than girls are. You just like tits, big deal."

 

“Yeah,” Aladdin agrees dreamily, with at least one of the sentences coming out of Judal’s mouth. “Sinbad’s a pretty nice guy. I like kissing girls that are a lot taller than me, so that makes sense, and you’re right, he smells really nice.” He smiles brightly. “I guess that makes sense, then!”

 

"… For the record, that doesn't mean you're allowed to kiss him." 

 

Aladdin blinks. "Allowed?"

 

"Yeah. Just like if you could still pick a candidate--well, you can't pick him. You're not allowed to." _Even if I can't any more, either. It's the principle of the thing._ "So don't try anything weird just because you want to kiss a taller guy that smells good; there's a dozen of those around here, but if you touch _him_ , I'll…" Death threats don't work. "I'll make sure there's _nothing_ sweet left in the kitchens for you." 

 

Aladdin has never looked more like a kicked puppy. “N-nothing sweet? Not even fruit?” It isn’t even that he _wants_ to kiss Sinbad--he doesn’t really, for no other reason than he _doesn’t_ , but the concept of not being _allowed_ to...it’s interesting. He’s not even sure if Judal understands why it’s so interesting.

 

"Especially not fruit. Well, except for the sour cherries they have around here, those aren't any good," Judal sniffs. "So don't do it. I'll eat all of it before you can even blink." 

 

Well. This is war, then. 

 

Aladdin firms his chin, sets his jaw, and gives up. “Okay,” he says meekly, nudging his head against Judal’s arm. “He must be a really good kisser if you want to keep him all to yourself that much.”

 

"He's not _that_ good. You're just not allowed to have him, that's all." Judal shifts away with a frown, wondering at why Aladdin always has to _lean_ on him, or touch his hair or just in general _touch_ things. "I'm better at it than he is, but he'd never admit it." 

 

“How do you know you’re better? Have you two ever kissed the same person?” Are there kissing competitions? Immediately, Aladdin has plans of finding one and becoming a judge.

 

"I just know I am." Ugh, it would be creepy if they had ever kissed the same person. "Look, if you kiss enough people, you sort of realize after awhile if you're good or not." 

 

A cheeky grin rises to Aladdin’s face. “I bet I’ve kissed more than you.”

 

Immediately, Judal has to roll his eyes. "Doubt it."

 

“I bet I ha-ave.” Aladdin rolls over onto his stomach, propping his chin up on his hands as he looks at Judal. “Girls like me a _lot_.”

 

"Yeah? Good for you. You can have all of them, then. Shoving your face into boobs doesn't count in your tally, though." 

 

“It doesn’t?” Aladdin asks, vaguely dismayed. He dials the number down a few, then pauses. “Does it have to be kissing on the _lips_?”

 

How old is this kid again? Geez, like he's anyone to talk, though. "That's the only thing that counts for this tally, yep." 

 

Aladdin nods slowly, and dials the total down a bit more. “Okay, then...I think sixty-seven? Oh, but the last time I went out with my friend in Laem I might have miscounted. It might be sixty-eight.”

 

Well, this is awkward. "… You don't… have to keep an _actual_ tally. It was a joke. How do you _remember_ all those girls, anyway?"

 

The only word for Aladdin’s expression, probably, is _disappointed_. “You forget the people you kiss after?”

 

"I only remember the good ones." _Actually, looking back, I don't remember a lot of things. Oh well._ "There aren't a lot, really--definitely not sixty-eight good ones."

 

Aladdin reaches out, giving Judal a consoling pat on the shoulder. “That’s all right. You’re still young. There’s plenty of time.”

 

Judal scowls, swatting his hand away. "I don't _want_ sixty-eight good ones, dumbass. Especially not sixty something of whatever girls _you're_ picking up. If you pay them, of course they're gonna kiss you."

 

“Pay them?” Aladdin tilts his head, confused. “Alibaba said a guy with a lot of money is always popular with girls, but I don’t have any money.”

 

Oh. Wow. Okay, he stands corrected. "… You really are a magnet, aren't you?"

 

“I guess so!” Aladdin beams, nudging his shoulder against Judal’s. “I could give you some tips if you want. I taught Alibaba!”

 

"I don't need tips," Judal growls, shoving back in open irritation. "I've got what I want." _Of course, it's a matter of keeping him, isn't it? Good fucking luck, with that snake around._

 

At that, Aladdin flops down again, head buried in the blanket. “I hear a lot about people wanting to be in love with one person. I don’t get it.”

 

"I'm not in love with anyone!" He is so _done_ with this kid. Another growl, and Judal starts rolling him towards the edge of the bed. "Just go already. I'm not talking about love or picking up girls or _kisses_ with you anymore. Go raise a dungeon or something, but not _here._ "

 

Judal kicks him out a lot. It’s kind of funny. 

 

Aladdin hits the ground with a thud and a little “whoof” of breath, scrambling back up a moment later. “Ja’far said you and Sinbad were being _obscene_.”

 

Judal sneers at that, his hand planting onto Aladdin's forehead to push him back again. "I'm not surprised. That prude thinks everything we do is obscene."

 

This time, Aladdin rolls back to the wall, then back towards the bed, popping up again like a child’s spring-loaded toy. “How come he never calls me obscene?”

 

"Because he likes you, I don't know." This is tiresome. Judal gives up, bored already of trying to throw Aladdin out. "Or maybe because you're not having sex with a guy, whatever."

 

Aladdin can’t help but be curious, climbing back onto the bed and asking, “How?”

 

"… 'How' what?" Oh, no. No way in hell is he being the brat's sex ed, he's been tolerant enough already.

 

“How do you have sex with a guy? Is it more fun that way?” Oh, there’s fruit in the basket on the bedside table. Aladdin makes a grab for a nectarine.

 

Judal bites the inside of his cheek, frowning as he debates what's easier--letting Aladdin steal his food and maybe shut up for five seconds, or stopping him and letting him continue to ramble on and ask questions. "If you don't know, I'm not _explaining_ it."

 

Aladdin takes a big bite of the nectarine--good, really good, though not, he thinks, as sweet as the ones Ja’far’s been smuggling into his room in the mornings. As he chews, he asks, “Do you like...take turns? Where do you put it?” Women are easy. You can pretty much rub up against any part of a woman and be happy, but men?

 

"… A guy still has two holes, take your fucking pick," is the annoyed, crass retort when it becomes apparent that _like in everything_ , Aladdin won't shut his mouth until he's satisfied with an answer. "It's not that complicated." 

 

Aladdin takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Where do you like putting it?”

 

"I--" What the hell is wrong with this kid? "I'm… I don't--what kind of question is that? You can't just _ask_ someone that."

 

“Why not?” Aladdin finishes off the nectarine, remembering at the last second not to eat the pit. “Is it a secret or something?”

 

"You just _don't_." Even _he_ never went around asking--all right, maybe he teased Kougyoku one too many times, or made some kind of nasty innuendoes in Ja'far's direction, but asking something like this is a little… "Small wonder you have so many 'kisses' under your belt--how many women do you just steal them from? Those don't count either."

 

“I don’t steal--okay, sometimes I forget to ask first when I see boobs,” Aladdin admits, and it takes him a good two or three seconds to snap out of that reverie. “But kissing a girl’s mouth is different. And girls let you know if they don’t want you to. Alibaba gets hit a lot.”

 

"… Are you saying boys don't let you know?" God, he really is sleepy now. This is more talking than he's done in a long time, and Sinbad's bed is too warm to stay awake in if one isn't _preoccupied_. He buries himself underneath the covers, no matter how his eyes stay trained upon Aladdin. "Guess if you've never kissed a guy, you wouldn't know that it's not that much different." 

 

“Really?” Aladdin blinks, trying not to yawn as well. Judal’s sleepy eyes are contagious, and he climbs halfway over Judal to wriggle down on the other side of him. “I kissed Alibaba once so he could practice. I don’t think he was very good at it, though. I didn’t count him in the sixty-eight.”

 

"… Your candidate is really worthless sounding," Judal deadpans, no matter how he sighs, biting off a protest that he knows is useless, anyway. "If you kissed him, you have to count it, unless you're only doing the good ones like I am."

 

Aladdin shrugs. “All right, I guess it’s sixty-nine, then. Or sixty-eight and Alibaba. I guess I just figured that kissing guys wasn’t good. I hope that’s wrong, though. Girls seem to like it pretty well.”

 

"It's wrong," Judal clarifies on a grumble. "I already told you, _I'm_ a good kisser, and guys like it when I kiss them, and vice versa. Whateverbaba is just useless, obviously."

 

“Oh?” Aladdin scoots a little closer, eyes lighting up. “Kiss me.”

 

" _What?_ No." Judal glares at him sleepily. "I don't kiss just anybody." 

 

Aladdin frowns a little, scrambling up on top of Judal. “No fair. I wanna see if you’re really as good as you say you are, or if you’re wrong when you insult my king.”

 

Um. Well. Judal isn't sure if Aladdin's a forward brat or just an idiot. Or maybe both. God, he's too tired to tell the difference, and so he blinks up at him slowly, resigned. "If I do it, will you shut up and let me nap?"

 

“Sure,” Aladdin chirps. He braces his hands on Judal’s shoulders, kneeling on the young man’s chest and belly, and leans in, closing his eyes.

 

It's probably as good of a promise as he's going to get. Whatever. He's done far worse for far _less_.

 

More annoying than reaching up to grasp at Aladdin's hair and drag him in closer still is the fact that Judal _knows_ , with his magic intact and thrumming through every inch of his body, this _would_ be fun. Kissing powerful men? Been there, done that. Kissing another _Magi?_ Never, though the rush would probably be unfathomable. 

 

As it is, he feels nothing save for that brush of skin against skin when he touches their lips together, his own parting for a scrape of his teeth against Aladdin's lower lip before he sucks it into his mouth. If he's going to kiss him to prove a point, he'll do it right, after all, with his hands tight in Aladdin's hair and his tongue at work. 

 

Huh. Judal’s right, Alibaba was just bad at this.

 

Or at least, Judal’s good at it, good enough to make Aladdin wriggle on top of him, his hands clutching at Judal’s shoulders, a surprised little huff of air escaping through his nose as he leans in. 

 

It’s not just smell; Judal _tastes_ like a pretty girl, has the soft skin and plush lips of one, even if the shoulders under his hands are broad and lean. The tip of his tongue flicks out, eager little brushes over Judal’s lips, against his own tongue, and he lets out a pleased little noise.

 

 _Told you_ , is the smug retort Judal wants to bite out. He would have, too, if not for wanting to prove his point just a little more, with his tongue an insistent swipe over Aladdin's lower lip, a prod of slick, wriggling flesh as it presses into his mouth for a better taste. He's a little out of breath when he finally tips his head back, eyes lidded in satisfaction as he lets his head loll back into his pillow. "So he was useless compared to me, right?" 

 

The brilliance of Aladdin’s smile could probably light up the room, if it weren’t for all the lanterns already doing so. “Yep, you’re a lot better at that.” 

 

And because it was fun, and because Aladdin likes things that are fun, and because Judal smells good and tastes good even if his chest _is_ flat, Aladdin leans in to kiss him again.

 

"Um--" 

 

It's an attempt at a protest, at the very least. Never mind that it's kind of hard to when he's tired, when Aladdin's not that annoying of a weight on top of him, warm and surprisingly _solid_ , and… okay, the kid is pretty good at kissing himself, if the little shiver that strokes its way down his spine is any indication. 

 

Well. This is happening, apparently.

 

His next breath leaves him in a rush, and Judal lets his hands loosely splay around the back of Aladdin's neck, his lips parting to kiss back with another, slow shudder. Ah, _dumb_. This is really, really dumb.

 

Ah good, Judal _stays_ good at kissing, and if anything, gets better at it the more they go on. The way he relaxes makes it easier for Aladdin to lean forward, one hand resting on his shoulder, the other coming up to brush the hair back from Judal’s face, lest it get in the way. From there, it’s natural to linger, threading through the thick black strands, a good and easy way to pull him closer, to feel the shivery, tingling warmth of the older Magi, and oh, he _wishes_ Judal could feel the pulse of the rukh right now. 

 

Aladdin wriggles until he stretches out on top of Judal, hopefully keeping his knees from being obnoxious by simply lying on top of him instead, nibbling a bit on those soft lips that are apparently pink without any artificial paint.

 

Judal sort of hates himself for the way his breath catches in his throat, for the reflexive, needy way his hands grab and knead and tug. He hates himself for sure for the way he lurches up and kisses harder, for the whine that bubbles up into the back of his throat and is quickly stifled with a hard swallow. 

 

Stupid. He's in Sinbad's bed, even, though truth be told, Sinbad would probably find it _amusing._ Judal bites back an annoyed groan and turns his head aside, face hot as he presses it into the pillow. "Enough. Y-you've got your proof now, right?" 

 

Aladdin lets out a disappointed little noise, but he pulls back all the same, propping himself up on his arms. “Yeah. You’re definitely good at that.” He looks down, sort of intrigued by the flush working its way up Judal’s neck and cheeks, the way his breath comes quick, and _certainly_ the way Aladdin’s lips tingle from being bitten. “So...does that mean you want to stop?”

 

"I'm not a girl," Judal feels the need to remind him, never mind that Aladdin is perched on him and certainly can feel how flat his chest is. "From what you said, it sounded like you only liked girls." That's really the least of his excuses. 

 

Aladdin shrugs, stretching out his legs to lie between Judal’s, wriggling around until he’s comfortable. “I’m having fun,” he says by way of explanation, twirling a lock of Judal’s hair around his finger. No, Judal isn’t exactly a girl, but he’s still nice to kiss.

 

Oookay, Aladdin needs to stop wriggling like that. Judal directs his gaze to the ceiling briefly, drawing in a slow breath. "Just to check--you _have_ done it before? With a girl, I mean." It begs the question of why he even cares--he's seduced worse, probably… and that's of course assuming that's the direction this is going. Then again, he can't exactly remember if he's ever kissed someone just to kiss them, anyway, without it leading to something else.

 

Aladdin laughs at that, scooting up a bit, shifting until he can plant at least one knee on the bed between Judal’s thighs, drawing his leg up to plant his foot for leverage when that aligns their bodies a bit better. “Oh, yeah. Do you want me to count those too? It’s not in the sixties or anything, but…”

 

"I don't wanna know." It doesn't matter, anyway--it's not the same, not that Aladdin knows that, even when Judal can't help but smooth his hands down his back and drag him back down, shuddering as he tries not to arch up too eagerly. "If you're going to kiss me again… just go ahead already."

 

This isn’t exactly like a girl telling him he’s _oh my god so cute_ , and asking if big sister can please have a kiss. It’s not even like the ones closer to his own age, the girls at the dormitory who’d snuck into his and Sphintus’s room when his roommate was gone, breathy and shy and excited about breaking the rules. This feels a bit more Important.

 

That doesn’t mean Aladdin isn’t going to have _fun_ with it, though.

 

It’s nice, to see Judal all blushy and wanting, hungry, and he knows how nice it feels to be kissed hard when he’s like that, so he does, teeth nipping a bit harder, sucking on Judal’s lips, on the tip of his tongue, lowering himself until they’re pressed chest to chest, hand still tangled in the older boy’s hair.

 

He's older. Supposedly, he's more experienced, but right now, he feels like everything _but_.

 

Instead, he's shaky and fluttery and twitching from the little shocks that Aladdin's mouth seems capable of, especially the nips of his teeth that seem to go straight to his cock. Judal forgets how he ended up like this, splayed over Sinbad's bed, clinging to Aladdin's back and panting low and fast into his mouth, his own body shifting, twisting to drag a thigh between Aladdin's legs--but he's pretty sure he likes it, considering how _hungry_ that twist of desire is in the pit of his belly. 

 

Somehow, Aladdin hadn’t quite grasped the fact that there’d be something hard rubbing up between his legs. Despite the surprise of it--and yes, it shouldn’t be a surprise, but it isn’t as though he’s spent much time _thinking_ about things like this--it’s nice. Nicer than nice, in a way that drags a strangled little noise out of his mouth, makes him pant against Judal’s lips, and as long as they’re kissing, it can’t _hurt_ to rub down against that hardening bulge while they do. The closest he’s ever gotten to this before is hearing Sphintus have those messy dreams--or maybe once when that girl with the weird rubber boobs and fake hair had sucked him off--or maybe teaching Alibaba how to kiss--or maybe letting Sphintus watch when he’d tumbled Aria--

 

All right, he’s come _close_ before, but it’s been nothing like this, and it certainly hadn’t made him quite so curious, quite so _interested_ , and Judal is nothing if not intriguing. He works his thigh down in between Judal’s, a slow rocking motion only spurring him to kiss Judal harder.

 

None of this is even _fair_. 

 

Judal's mind keeps try to wander, to think about how it'd be different, even _better_ if he could feel the press of Aladdin's rukh around him, feel the heated flutter of it all seeping straight into him. It's difficult, though, and for that he's thankful--between Aladdin's mouth, the wriggle and shift of his body above him, the slow grind and rock of him down, his mind is _more_ than preoccupied elsewhere. 

 

He shivers hard, his back arching as one hand's nails drag down Aladdin's spine, his hips jutting upward in an insistent, eager roll. No matter how his fingers shake, they tangle up into Aladdin's hair, tugging to coax his mouth elsewhere as his head tips back, baring his throat with a heated flush dragging over his skin. "Bite," he quietly pleads.

 

Judal’s mouth tastes good, of sweets and secrets and skin, and for a moment, Aladdin doesn’t want to pull away no matter _what_ Judal’s asking him to do. But that’s not polite, so he trails his lips down, fastening them to the fluttering pulse of Judal’s neck, and oh, he’s glad. 

 

Judal tastes better than he smells, like a pretty lady who only goes out at night, moonlight and sweet ice cream and some flower from farther east than Laem, and it’s hard not to want to just _eat_ him. Aladdin nips and sucks, for once too engrossed in what he’s doing to even be sad about the sorry state Judal is in. 

 

And oh, the way Judal is writhing slowly under him...that’s nice, too. It makes Aladdin plant his leg down more firmly, and even if he isn’t as flexible as Judal’s bendy back, he’s at least as urgent, rutting down with every bite of his teeth.

 

Every grind, every arch, all accented by the drag of Aladdin's teeth over his skin--it's too much, with already frayed nerves and his mind unable to quite _focus_ on any one thing. It's all a misfiring of heat and pleasure, leaving him to lurch up and ride against Aladdin's thigh as if it were his cock Judal were wriggling his way down, his breath escaping as hot, ragged little pants when it feels so good that he can't do anything but _whimper_ , his hands splaying low over Aladidn's lower back to encourage _more, more, more_. 

 

It isn't as if he _needs_ much more, when all is said and done. Judal bites his lip hard when he comes, stupidly fast, stupid enough to leave him dizzy and lightheaded, and he sags down into the mattress, belatedly thinking to shove a hand between them, dragging long fingers between Aladdin's legs, palming him through fabric as he pants hot and heavy against his ear. 

 

It’s a bit of a surprise, to feel the sudden bloom of wet heat against his thigh. It makes him laugh a little, breathless and eager, pressing down into Judal’s hand as he leans up, biting at Judal’s ear as he whispers, “Judal is as messy as a girl.”

 

At least Judal has nice hands like a girl, but _bigger_ , soft and skilled and really, if they’ve come this far, Aladdin wants to feel them on his _skin_. It’s a simple tug to one end of cloth before his pants slip off, and he presses up into Judal’s hand again, eyes fluttering shut as he buries his face in Judal’s neck.

 

"Not a girl," Judal breathlessly reminds him, biting his lip as another, hard shudder makes his toes curl, Aladdin's teeth against his ear enough to make him feel like he could come _again_. His fingers squeeze in turn over bare flesh, thumb swiping over the slick, dripping tip of Aladdin's cock before sliding down the length of him in a shaky, but no less insistent stroke. 

 

Not a girl, and Judal’s hand is so big it reminds Aladdin of the first time a woman had touched him, when he was substantially _smaller_. It feels close, reminds him of how exciting and new it was to feel someone’s hand, and this is so _different_ that it’s the same, sending little tingles up his spine, making him shiver in delight as he nips, every mindful of Judal’s instruction to bite. “I know,” he says, fingernails scraping along Judal’s scalp, at the base of his braid. “If you were a girl I’d put it in you.”

 

Every nerve ending in his body _twitches_ at that, at the combination of Aladdin's mouth and his fingers in his hair that feel good in a way that Judal was pretty sure only _Sinbad_ knew of, and before he can bite his tongue--"You still can." His hand shakes as it reaches for one of Aladdin's, grabbing and guiding it southward, along the curve of his ass as he wriggles to spread his legs, face hot. "H-here. I wouldn't mind."

 

Aladdin’s first instinct is to wonder _why_ , but if Judal does this a lot, and with Sinbad and other people, he must know what he’s talking about. Besides, he has a really, _really_ nice ass, and Aladdin spends a few minutes squeezing and petting it before squirming down between Judal’s legs, eyes bright and eager. “I knew a couple girls who liked this.” He rubs his face against Judal’s belly for a moment, pushing up the little shirt to lick one of his nipples even if there _isn’t_ anything fun attached to it. “It’s not as wet as the other place so you need some oil, right?”

 

Judal has to wonder _exactly_ how much this kid has gotten around--never mind an actual number, though, as it's obviously _a lot._ And it's all been pretty good by the sound of it, something that sparks an odd little jealousy in the back of Judal's mind, never mind how he shivers at the temporary loss of contact as he squirms partially away, grabbing for the little pot of aloe at the bedside. "This is better," he murmurs, grabbing hold of Aladdin's braid to tug and urge him up, making it easier to reach a slick hand down between Aladdin's legs and wrap it around his cock. "Besides, I'm used to it," Judal breathes, eyes lidding as his fingers curve around him, squeezing with each languid stroke. "So as long as you're like this, I'm fine. You're not gonna hurt me."

 

Aladdin’s breath catches, and he swallows hard, eyelashes fluttering at the slick slow drag of Judal’s fingers over the length of him. It’s so nice, to be slicked up and stroked like this, like when the girls want him to put it in their boobs and try to lick the tip as it comes through. 

 

But when Judal spreads his legs, baring himself and obviously wanting, well, that’s good too. Aladdin draws up his knees, his hands petting and stroking over Judal’s thighs and belly as he lets Judal guide him, pressing against a tight little hole, and Aladdin lets out a high, needy little groan as he pushes into the sweet, tight heat of the older boy’s body.

 

Breath leaves him in a rush, and _god_ , if he thinks about it hard enough, he can almost imagine the fast, eager flutter of rukh around him, the heady surge and rush of _power_. Better to think about how it feels to have Aladdin sinking into his body, thighs trembling at the stretch as Judal grabs for him, dragging him in deeper, dragging him _closer_ , shivering hard as he wriggles up with an insistent arch of his back. "Most guys say it's _better_ than being with a woman," he lowly pants into Aladdin's neck, his own teeth nipping into soft flesh as he squirms, deliberately tense around the younger boy no matter he quivers. "Or at least, _I_ am."

 

Aladdin’s not sure if he would say exactly _that_ \--maybe those guys hadn’t really been with a woman, or they don’t really appreciate breasts the way he does, but he can’t deny (nor would he want to) that sliding into Judal’s body, feeling him tremble and writhe, having his neck nibbled on as he thrusts, is really, _really_ nice. Judal smells even better like this, like the light soft perfume has been ignited by his _need_ , earthy and demanding, and while he can’t quite understand wanting to do it here instead of the other place a woman has, with a man it’s more than good enough. 

 

“R-really tight,” he says, breath coming short and fast, and oh, it’s nice the way Judal wriggles and clenches around him.

 

With those words, Judal can't help but arch up, can't help but drags his hands down Aladdin's spine with his fingers curled like dull claws. It shouldn't feel _this_ good--a steady, mind-numbing pleasure that leaves him feeling all the more shivery and weak with each slippery thrust into his body, with each wriggle of his hips upward to meet each of them. His own cock throbs again, aching between them, and he's _glad_ Aladdin is so surprisingly solid and hard beneath soft skin, so surprisingly _strong_ when he shoves all the way inside and leaves Judal's breath hiccuping.

 

"Not gonna break," he mumbles, biting at Aladdin's ear. "J-just… take what you want from me, _want_ you to."

 

Aladdin lets out a pleased little grunt, shivering at the drag of Judal’s nails down his back, all the more hard inside of him for it. “You too,” he breathes, turning his head to take Judal’s lips in another kiss, a kiss as nice as the one that started all of this, bruising those pretty lips with his own. “Whatever you want.”

 

He’s never held another man’s cock before, but it’s _interesting_ , slippery and hard and shaped just a little different from his own, pressing up into his hand when he curls it around.

 

The little twitch and shiver to follow Aladdin's touch is nearly enough on its own, never _mind_ the heat of his lips against Judal's own, or the way he can _feel_ how hard the boy is inside of him, making him squirm that much more eagerly, twisting his hips against him with an eager, breathless whine. 

 

Judal bucks himself up into Aladdin's grasp, biting down onto the other boy's lower lip with a heated, mindless breath escaping him. It's good, _too good_ , leaving him shivery and aching and filled with the urge to just _melt_ \--

 

So he does, with a shuddering little groan against Aladdin's mouth, spilling over his hand with a hard, trembling bow of his back, eyes fluttering as he clings to Aladdin's back like it's his last lifeline. 

 

Is Judal _allowed_ to squeeze down like that?

 

That, for the first time, is like _nothing_ Aladdin has ever felt before, warm and tight and oh god so tight, leaving him a panting, quivering mess as his vision goes white, thrusting ragged and fast and almost frenzied into Judal’s body, coming deep inside him with a breathy cry as his hands tighten in Judal’s hair, collapsing on top of him with a slow, satiated sigh. 

 

His eyes slide shut, just as a beatific smile spreads across his mouth. 

 

 _I wish the rukh could see you now_ , he thinks, no matter his urgings to it. _It would be so happy that you’re happy._

 

If he was already tired before, _now_ he feels exhausted, so pleasantly drained that he doesn't bother pushing Aladdin away as he sinks into the mattress with a little, lingering shiver. "You can stay," Judal murmurs, the languid drape of his arms around the younger boy following his words. "If you actually let me _sleep_ now." 

 

It’s almost a squeal that Aladdin lets out, if a squeal could be sleepy and sated and every so pleased. He nudges his head against Judal’s chest, barely awake enough to feel one last prickle of disappointment before simply wriggling up against Judal’s neck instead and falling asleep.

 

Perhaps three hours later, a sand-riddled, exhausted, satisfied Sinbad opens the door quietly, just in case Judal has actually managed to fall asleep.

 

Oh.

 

Huh.

 

It would be impolite, probably, to wake them by laughing.

 

The door opening is enough to make Judal stir from the rather pleasant sleep he's drifted off into, and he stretches with a slow yawn, turning slightly to bury his face into the pillow that now smells like some mix of Sinbad and that annoying Magi who's not _quite_ as bad as he thought--

 

Wait. 

 

His eyes snap wide, catching the most fleeting of glances of Sinbad from the doorway--and the pillow promptly goes over his head as his face flames. Ugggh, _god_. Judal has _never_ been inclined to be shy about what he does in his own spare time, but this… this is different, isn't it? _Aladdin_ , someone he swore to kill--in Sinbad's bed, access granted to him by charity alone--bad, this is bad, and awkward, and he sort of wants to die all over again--

 

Sinbad can see it, the way Judal starts to shy back into his shell, and well, that won’t do, will it? He’d actually looked _peaceful_ , happy and content in his sleep, and if that isn’t what Sinbad’s been wanting, he doesn’t know what is.

 

He shucks his most offensively rough jewelry, as well as his outer robes, stretching out on the bed a foot or two away from Judal with a grin. “You look like you had fun,” he says quietly, trying not to wake the boy before he has a chance to talk with Judal.

 

Slowly, the pillow slides away, producing a pair of wary red eyes, still a little blurred from sleep no matter his abrupt awakening. "… You're not mad?" is the cautious press to follow. He's being stupid, of course. Sinbad, of all people, _wouldn't_ be, but--if he had done something like this in _Kouen's_ bed… even Koumei's, or perhaps that's especially Koumei's--ah, the list goes on. _No one_ is as tolerant as Sinbad.

 

“I don’t know, did the two of you fill the bed with crumbs and smashed fruit?” Sinbad gently teases, reaching out to curl a strand of Judal’s braid around his finger. “Love what you’ve done with your hair, too.”

 

Above and beyond how sort of amusing it is, in a slightly put-out way, to have Aladdin poach yet another one of his conquests, the softness in Judal’s face, the way his body had been so relaxed, and how honestly _adorable_ the two of them look together go a long, long way towards making the smile on Sinbad’s face a genuine one.

 

"We didn't do _that._ " There's a last moment of lingering, wavering hesitation before Judal lets himself relax again with a slow, measured exhale. "He braided it," he mumbles, glancing aside with a put out little sigh. "He wouldn't leave, you know. I told him to like ten times, and then it just…"

 

“Hmm.” Sinbad examines the braid, turning it this way and that in his fingers. “I’ll have to ask about his technique, it’s better than mine.” The smile turns wry, twisting his lips a bit as he deadpans, “Though I hope that doesn’t apply to everything.”

 

"As if!" It's a little too fast and loud and Judal flushes hot before he can curb the reaction _._ "I mean--it's not like he's--… or like I want this to be a _thing_ , or anything."

 

This time, Sinbad can’t stifle his laughter, though he _tries_ , muffling it into his fist. Aladdin stirs nonetheless, blinking sleepily up at Judal, then at Sinbad. “Ah! Sorry, I fell asleep in your bed without asking first.”

 

“And you walked through my shields.”

 

Aladdin nods, yawning and stretching, burrowing back into Judal’s neck. “Yeah, but I’m not sorry about that.”

 

Judal wonders if his face can get any hotter. _Kill me_ , he miserably thinks, giving Aladdin a firm shove away from him. "Don't just--I'm not your girlfriend, you can't just… _do that_ ," he fumbles through, shooting a pathetic stare up to Sinbad. _Help, I didn't ask for this._

 

Sinbad finally takes pity on Judal, picking Aladdin up and setting him on his feet. “You must be hungry,” he suggests firmly, tucking the boy into one of his own robes and steering him towards the door. 

 

“Mmm, not really, I--”

 

“If you tell Betria in the kitchens it’s for the king’s special occasion, she’ll give you something very special.”

 

The last flick of a blue braid is all Sinbad has time to see before Aladdin hits the door in a mad dash. Sinbad laughs, shutting the door before stretching back out on the bed, propping up his head on one hand. “That should keep him busy for a while. I don’t even have a maid named Betria.”

 

"Good," Judal groans, stretching out and draping an arm over his face. "I _swear_ I didn't mean for this to happen. I mean--he just… he won't _go away._ Honestly, he'd probably have gotten bored enough to start trying to raise dungeons in Sindria… I stopped him, you can thank me for that," he flatly adds.

 

That startles Sinbad a bit. What on earth reason could Aladdin have for wanting to raise dungeons in Sindria, unless...unless he’s looking for a king, actively and enthusiastically now. 

 

He puts that aside for the time being, flicking a fingertip over one of the love bites on Judal’s neck. “So you valiantly sacrificed your virtue to save my kingdom. However shall Sindria thank you?”

 

"Don't be gross," is the grumble to follow, though Judal tentatively lifts a hand to poke at his own neck. Ah, yep. There are _definitely_ bruises there. "I just didn't want him doing it here because your stupid country is so tiny… not like he knows how, anyway." His lips twist in a sort of sardonic amusement. "Really great, huh? He's been trained in magic for this long and he still has no clue what he's doing."

 

“He’s been trained by magicians,” Sinbad points out. “Magicians who had no idea he was a Magi. Imagine…ah, never mind.”

 

"Imagine what?" Judal rolls onto his stomach, chin dropping atop folded arms, eyebrows arched high. "He can't fix me, you know. Don't get your hopes up about having two Magi sitting in your kingdom."

 

 _I haven’t given up hope on that yet._ In fact, he’s barely _started_ to hope for it, but honestly, when hasn’t Aladdin surprised them all? “Not what I was going to say. I was just wondering how fast he would progress if he had someone who _understood_ what it was to be a Magi teaching him.” _Someone who desperately needs a purpose, perhaps..._

 

Judal immediately snorts at that, petulantly shutting his eyes. "I'm no teacher. Besides, you don't want to make him any more powerful than he already is. It won't be good for you."

 

“Are you so sure about that?” Sinbad nuzzles into Judal’s ear, amused to find someone else’s toothmarks there. “It might be. I know another Magi who didn’t think I was such a poor choice, after all.”

 

It's better if he saves Aladdin the trouble of this… isn't it? 

 

Something like regret twists in the pit of his stomach. _Why couldn't you have just picked me? Then this wouldn't make me so angry… upset--something. None of this would have happened._ "You were my first choice," Judal readily tells him, and with that, rolls his way over, slinging a leg over Sinbad's hips to plop himself right into his lap. "You still would be. But that's not what I'm saying--he's… kind of an idiot," he wearily finishes. "When it comes to being a Magi."

 

“I wanted to say yes.” Easier, to say it now, even tinged with regret and sadness as it is. Sinbad’s arms wrap around Judal, pulling him close, hands stroking slowly up and down his back. “I would have, if you hadn’t been with Al-Sarmen. In a heartbeat. A dozen times over.”

 

He's not sure if it's better hearing it or not, now that it's all said and done. Judal heaves a sigh, nestling his way against Sinbad's chest all the same, propping his chin atop his shoulder. "You should've said 'yes' anyway. You're not getting Aladdin."

 

“You’re so sure? What did he tell you?” Sinbad grins, tugging gently on Judal’s braid. “Maybe he just needs you to persuade him like a good teacher, hmm?”

 

"I'm _serious_ ," Judal mutters, frowning as he bites down onto one earring and gently tugs. "I've… well, I've know for awhile. He's already chosen someone."

 

That sours Sinbad’s mood far faster than seeing someone else sprawled between his lover’s legs, and he pulls back, eyebrows snapping together. “Not-- _not_ Alibaba.”

 

"… Yeah." Judal grimaces as he sits back onto Sinbad's thighs with a little shrug. "I wanna say he didn't know what he was doing when he picked him, but he still seems pretty confident in his choice. Talk about bad taste."

 

For a second, the anger swells, hot and biting and furious enough to raise all the oceans in Sindria. 

 

And Sinbad lets it go, the waves lapping gently against the shores once more. He laughs, tossing his head back and leaning against the headboard, scooting Judal closer. “Well, then. If he hadn’t bedded you I’d say he has no taste at all.”

 

Okay. That was better than he thought. _Maybe_ , some part of Judal still thinks, _Sinbad is happy because he'd much rather have_ him _._

 

A pity it'll never happen, but it's still a nice thought nonetheless.

 

"It's not gonna be a reoccurring thing," Judal protests nonetheless, wriggling his way closer again as he drapes his arms around Sinbad's shoulders, lips brushing along the curve of his ear. "I don't like _kids,_ anyway." 

 

Sinbad doesn’t hesitate to fill his hands with the firm flesh of Judal’s ass, tugging him closer still, the warmth of his body so much warmer when Judal is close. “Mm, I’m surprised he could satisfy you when you’re used to someone so much _larger_.” God, at least he hopes he’s got a bigger cock than a barely-pubescent boy.

 

"Maybe I was just desperate." Though it's not as though Aladdin's _small_ , especially with his age in mind--just, well. He's a _kid_. Not like Sinbad, tall and broad and so damnably _strong_. Judal buries his face into the side of Sinbad's neck, inhaling deeply. "You were gone all day, after all. High King of _Eight_ Countries now, huh?"

 

Sinbad tangles a hand in what’s left of Judal’s flyaway hair, nibbling on the shell of one curved ear. “Give me until dinnertime and maybe I’ll make it nine,” he growls, one hand sliding up a smooth thigh, up…

 

He pulls away, making a face. “I will ask you to wipe off a bit first.”

 

Judal huffs, expression a mix of flustered and pouting. "It's not like it was my idea or anything." Okay, maybe it was. A little bit. "Take a bath with me," he switches to instead, sliding his way out of Sinbad's lap. "Then you don't have to worry about it."

 

That’s a more than adequate compromise, and Sinbad rolls out of bed with a groaning stretch, shucking the rest of his clothes on the way. “Can get the sand out of my joints, too,” he points out, rubbing a kink out of his neck. “And I like it when you’re all soapy slippery.”

 

"Mm, and my hair won't be a problem this time," Judal breathes, stretching up on tiptoe once Sinbad rises to wind his arms around the man's neck, nuzzling his way up to his lips before kissing him. He _misses_ being able to thoughtlessly use a bit of magic and lift himself another inch or two from the ground, but this, he supposes, is all right, too. At least _Sinbad_ seems to like when he has to lean up to properly kiss him.

 

It’s kind of...oddly enjoyable, though Sinbad wouldn’t like to admit that, to have Judal so reliant on him, clinging to him, _needing_ him. Far beyond the little ego boost (and honestly, if he needed the ego boost of one solitary person needing him, he’s hardly doing a good job as king), it’s satisfying, and far from feeling bored of Judal as he’d half-expected, the opposite grows truer every day. 

 

Sometimes, he thinks this powerless Judal is more dangerous to him than the Magi Judal had ever been. 

 

With the strength of one arm, Sinbad lifts Judal as he stands, a long kiss lingering on his lips as he carries the younger man to the bathroom--no need to lament your loss of powers, he wants to say, when my strength can do just as well and it’s yours for the taking.

 

 _This_ is good.

 

It's not faked, or just brought about pity--or at least, not for the most part, Judal likes to think he'd be able to _tell_ , because he's known Sinbad this long, hasn't he? It makes him think that Sinbad really will let him stay for as long as he likes, and at this rate, _as long as he likes_ is a very long time.

 

He doesn't really foresee himself _not liking_ Sinbad in the near future, so… 

 

Eventually, when the bath is properly drawn, the water steaming and he can splay himself properly over Sinbad's chest, he likes to think how _used_ to this he could get, even if he feels a little bit like a kept pet (or worse--or is it better--a mistress stowed away from the public eye). His braid trails over and out of the tub, the slosh of water following his movements to wind his arms about Sinbad's neck, thighs settling to either side of his hips as Judal contently stretches against him. 

 

Odd, considering how uncomfortable Judal makes most people--including Sinbad, most of the time they’ve known each other--but it’s sort of impossible right now for Sinbad to feel anything less than totally comfortable, with Judal nestled against him. 

 

It’s enough to make him seriously wonder how long Judal will be content to stay like this, and whether Sinbad would ever, ever ask him to leave. (he doubts it.)

 

There aren’t any safe topics of conversation, so Sinbad doesn’t bother for a while, slowly washing Judal’s soft skin with softer cloths, cleaning out every part of him with a little grin, dunking his braid without undoing it.

 

"… So," Judal eventually says, and ah, he's glad he doesn't feel any shame, not _really_ , because he's so used to Sinbad's hands on his body _everywhere_ , even when it comes to cleaning away what's left of another man (or boy, he thinks with a little grimace), "can we… not let your pet snake know, uh, what happened?" He's not the most observant, they all know that, but geez, he'd be a total blind fool to not notice how Ja'far rears up like a cobra ready to strike when anyone even _talks_ about Aladdin in a slightly 'incorrect' way. 

 

Sinbad drops the cloth at the _idea_ , an involuntary shudder when he actually looks over his shoulder--just in case. Ja’far has a habit of being wherever Sinbad needs him, which unfortunately means that he’s very often exactly where Sinbad doesn’t want him. 

 

Assured of the other man’s current absence--right, he’d put up shields--he relaxes a bit, picking up the cloth. “Ah, agreed. Most definitely. Not that he wouldn’t mean well, but I’d like to keep my palace standing, thanks very much.” _And I don’t particularly want to scrape you off the cobblestones outside my window._

 

"Good. Really good." Judal shudders as well, face burying its way into Sinbad's neck. When he had all the rukh in the world at his disposal, Ja'far didn't scare him a bit. Now, with nothing, and being able to _feel_ nothing from him-- _now_ the man is right at terrifying, and it doesn't help knowing that Ja'far _hates_ him. Maybe he brought that on himself, from all the previous times in poking at him, but… "It's not like I _did_ anything, anyway."

 

Sinbad strokes gently down Judal’s back, enjoying the act of washing him disproportionately to how much Judal actually needs cleaning--an advantage of near-daily baths when Judal hasn’t so much as left his chambers in several days. “Oh, no? Should I give him a stern talking-to about taking advantage? It’s best to teach children these things early.” _Otherwise they end up like me._

 

"Oh, definitely," is the sigh to follow, Judal's hands wrapping their way through Sinbad's hair as he arches his back like a cat, _thoroughly_ enjoying the attention. "He doesn't take 'no' for an answer. My guess is that he's learning from you, somehow."

 

Sinbad lets out a sound that’s half purr, half growl. “How would you know, when you’ve never bothered telling me no?”

 

"It's just a _guess_. You've had Kougyoku whining once or twice, after all, and I got to hear all about how _awful_ you are… mm, though she definitely never _meant_ to say 'no'," Judal laughs, his teeth closing over the edge of Sinbad's ear to light nip. "I could pretend to say no once or twice, though I think you like it when I'm doing the opposite more."

 

Sinbad’s fingers dig into the soft flesh of Judal’s thighs, teeth bared in a grin as he leans into every playful touch. “Kougyoku is a little girl that needs a man between her legs,” he says, spreading Judal’s thighs apart just a bit to prove his point. “And lying isn’t your strong suit. Stick to wanting me so bad you can hardly breathe.”

 

That's _far_ too easy, especially when that touch alone makes him shiver, and his hands fist tighter into Sinbad's hair, face half-burying into his neck with the eager wriggle of his body deeper into the man's lap. "If that's what pleases my king," Judal breathes. God if it isn't nice being able to say it, even if there's no contract of magic involved--it's _almost_ as good, almost. 

 

The words stop Sinbad in his tracks for a moment, stunned at how his own heart flutters at that simple, easy sentence. He pulls back for a second, taking Judal’s face into his hands, and kisses him slow and deep.

 

There’s no reason it should make him feel so strongly. But it does, and it’s strong and good, so _good_.

 

 _Really_ good.

 

It's a little strange, being able to think something is that _good_ without something in his mind poking and prodding at him and telling him all the reasons why it isn't, why he's wrong, and why he shouldn't _be here._ His mind is surprisingly silent nowadays, and it's _nice_ , leaving Judal to wonder if this is really what it's supposed to be like, and if being magic-less isn't _really_ the end of it all. 

 

If this is part of the deal, he can cope. Maybe. 

 

"… You're not gonna get tired of me, are you?" It's kind of pathetic to ask, isn't it? The thought is still a terrifying one and Judal shivers. "If you do… I don't know what I'll do."

 

Another soft brush of his lips, and Sinbad leans his forehead against Judal’s, nudging his nose gently against the younger man’s. “I don’t get tired of people,” he says softly, “and I don’t want you to go anywhere.”

 

This is as good a segue as he’ll get, so he leans into it, another kiss before he volunteers, “I don’t want you to get bored, though. You can laze in my bed as long as you want, but if you want something to do...I think Aladdin would learn a lot from you.”

 

"… I'm not a teacher," Judal mumbles, sighing as he sags down, gaze lidded and lips parted to better languidly nip at Sinbad's lower lip. "Besides, do you really wanna make that kid stronger? I already told you, he can't pick you." 

 

Sinbad brushes a hand under Judal’s chin, angling his face up to hold his gaze. “He nearly raised a dungeon in the middle of my tiny island kingdom today because he’s untrained,” he points out, placing a kiss on the tip of Judal’s nose. It makes him too happy, probably to be able to spoil someone like this. “I’d rather my kingdom be destroyed by a formidable enemy than a careless, untrained friend.”

 

Judal's brow furrows. "Well… either way, I'm not sure I even _can_ ," he amends after another moment's contemplation. "I mean, a lot of it would be kind of… demonstrative? And I can't do that. I guess he might understand it if I just talk about it, but… I also have a lot more experience with black rukh. I don't even remember what it's like to not have it." 

 

“Tell you what.” Sinbad sits back, running the cloth over Judal’s chest and abdomen, swiping his face playfully before lathering it over his shoulders again. “Whenever you want, I’ll take you and Aladdin out to the middle of the desert, somewhere really deserted, and you can give it a try. Whatever you want. No demands, no class schedule, just let him know what being a Magi is all about. The one thing you understand that you can talk to him about is having more power than anyone else on earth.”

 

_Assuming I know what it's really about._

 

It's actually all something of a blur, everything Al-Sarmen ever whispered into his ear, but thinking on that makes him anxious, inclined to believe that Al-Sarmen is _right there_ and still watching him, and so Judal shoves it aside with a nod instead. "All right," he allows. "If nothing else… I guess I can teach him how to raise a dungeon properly, so he isn't messing up Sindria." 

 

“There.” Sinbad’s smile is more relieved for Judal’s sake than for Sindria’s, and god, it’s probably bad how he can’t seem to stop kissing him now that Judal’s not playing cat-and-mouse every ten seconds. “Far apart from your personal room to me, you’ve earned a place in Sindria forever for just that service alone.”

 

That _shouldn't_ make him feel as warm as it does. 

 

Or maybe it _should_. Judal doesn't really know, but it certainly makes him _melt_ faster than anything, relief spreading fast and strong through his veins. "… Yeah, well. Your country's okay--ah, except for your peaches. You need better ones," he sighs, rubbing his cheek against Sinbad's. "I'll deal, though."

 

Too nice, to be able to spoil someone.

 

Nicer, that it’s Judal. Too nice, because it makes him say things that are stupid, and _mean_ them. “I,” he says quietly, nuzzling into every touch, “would conquer a country just to bring you a peach.”

 

Judal's nose scrunches a bit at that. "Well, I guess you could do that, but it'd take too long, and you'd be gone… just import some or something, it's probably easier." 

 

Sinbad does growl now, dumping Judal onto his back with a splash. “Don’t go getting all practical on me when I’m being romantic,” he chides, leaning down so his hair spills all around them. “I have Ja’far for that, you know.”

 

A playful scowl pulls at Judal's expression as he reaches up, grabbing fistfuls of Sinbad's hair to yank him down. "Don't compare me to Freckles, he's weird," he sighs out, tipping his head up to nip lightly at Sinbad's lower lip, tongue flicking out to trace the same spot as his teeth. "I just don't want you to _go_ anywhere. Isn't that romantic, too?" 

 

Sinbad kisses Judal roughly, sliding up hard and demanding between his legs, hoisting his feet up over his head with a tight squeeze of his hands. “When I was your age,” he mutters against Judal’s mouth, “I never wanted to stay anywhere for more than three days. With you I think I could stay in the same room for three years and not mind.”

 

Stupid, ridiculous things coming out of his mouth, and they’re _fun_ to say, especially since Judal won’t talk about paperwork or how the sheets would surely start to stink or promises he’s made in the past.

 

Judal groans, a breathless, shuddering sound as his back arches, one hand scrabbling at the edge of the tub to brace himself for more leverage. He squirms, thighs splaying wider at the insistent press of Sinbad's body against him, at the firm, demanding pressure of Sinbad's hands, and _god_ , it feels good to just let this man shove and bend him wherever he likes. "Good," he sighs out, eyes fluttering as his body twists in a sinuous little writhe. "I'll do my best to keep my king _entertained_ for all that time, then."

 

 _My_ _king_. 

 

It goes straight to his cock every time, a dream made hard reality even if it’s not the way he wanted it, but it’s still more than he ever thought he’d be able to accept. “Your king,” he breathes, hardening fast against Judal’s skin, hips rolling in slow circles. “You’ll give yourself to your king, won’t you?”

 

There's really nothing better, Judal thinks, than _knowing_ how Sinbad likes being called that, gets off on it, even, and he swears, if by some blessing the rukh ever returns to him, Sinbad _will_ be his, set in stone and bound to his side. 

 

Until then, this is still really, _really_ nice. 

 

"Already have." His hands are insistent, needy things, dragging down Sinbad's back, tangling into his hair, curling and twitching as he wriggles himself against the hardening line of the man's cock, a breathy whine escaping his throat. "I'm all yours, so please--use me, want you to--"

 

It should always have been like this.

 

From the first moment they’d met, when he’d thought Judal a pretty girl who’d strayed too far from her keepers, and he’d lost himself in the desert starlight reflected in those mad red eyes, it should _always_ have been like this.

 

Clutching at each other, needing, wanting, _taking_ , and Sinbad forgets everything but how much he needs to be inside Judal, and so he _is_.

 

Slow, because there’s nothing to use but soap and he doesn’t want to hurt the boy, but there’s no way he’s going to wait. Sinbad takes him slowly, mouth bruising over a younger man’s bite marks, making his own that much larger and darker. “It should always have been like this.”

 

Judal's mouth falls open, voice caught with a hard, tense swallow as he's filled--too much, always too much and not enough all at the same time, stretching him wide and leaving him so _full_ that he aches. His head tips back, lolling over the edge of the tub as he pants toward the ceiling, nails flexing into Sinbad's back. Judal _sags_ , thighs quivering and muscles twitching with every inch that sinks into him, with every nip of teeth into his flesh to better remind him of _who he belongs to._ "S-sorry," he manages to rasp out, eyes fluttering. "Sorry, I wanted it to be, I just--"

 

“Stop apologizing.” A clear, demanding order, and the only time he forgets that he can’t simply treat anyone like he owns them--because he _does_ own Judal, every bit as much as Judal consents to be owned. A hard shove, and he gets to watch the play of pain and a strange sort of _relief_ on Judal’s face, something he’s come to associate with finally taking all of him. Only Judal ever wears that particular expression, only Judal is quite that _needy_ for it, and only Judal gets to see what Sinbad looks like when he loses every last inhibition he has, regardless of the fact that he hasn’t touched a drop of wine.

 

What's left of his breath leaves him in a rush, and Judal nods mindlessly, clutching at Sinbad's back as he tries to shove himself down for _more_ , no matter how their hips are already flush and the squirming, rocking of his body only makes him that much more breathless. "Love it when you're inside me," he pants out instead, the furrow of his brow, the tensing of his jaw and the way his eyes briefly squeeze shut revealing perhaps _how much_ , no matter the tense _ache_ of it all. "A-all of you--you're perfect, no one else feels this _good_ \--"

 

For the first time in his life--a fleeting thought, gone before it crystallizes, but it _happens_ \--Sinbad thinks he could be perfectly happy bedding only this one person for the rest of his life. 

 

Judal squeezes him perfectly, and the fact that it’s difficult and rough around the edges and awkward in the bathtub somehow only makes it better, adding a _bite_ to the pleasure that he loves more than he should. “Love being inside you,” he groans, and fists a hand in Judal’s hair, yanking it back. “Love watching you take all of it and beg for more.”

 

The hand in his hair makes him _shudder_ , a lingering, quivering thing that makes his hips buck and twist. God, only Sinbad pulls his hair _just right_ , and as far as Judal's concerned, that's what it's there for--just for Sinbad, a handle and a leash for him to use as he sees fit, with every tug going straight from his scalp to his cock that throbs between them. 

 

"Want all of it," Judal readily, mindlessly agrees, and it's true that if there were _more_ , he'd take all of that, too, if Sinbad bid it, no matter how he already hurts, and savors the thought of feeling it all later with every stride. He bites his lip, stifling the hiccup of his breath, the little, desperate sob that wants to escape when he rolls his hips down and his eyes flutter, squeezing shut briefly when the angle is just _nearly_ perfect and god, it's almost fun to deny himself like that. Far better, anyway, if it's Sinbad yanking him down so perfectly, shoving his cock into just the right spot and leaving Judal shrieking _._ " _Please_ \--"

 

Sinbad knows, instinctively, exactly what Judal is asking for. To be ridden hard and fast, yanked down and fucked stupid, to be taken until he’s screaming himself hoarse, crying and shaking and not sure if he can take it but hungry to try.

 

And what is a king good for but to serve?

 

Sinbad’s hands close around Judal’s hips, a breathless “Hang on” the only warning Judal gets. He braces his knees against the bottom of the tub, and from there on he’s _lost_ , hard and rough and brutal with every thrust, driving into Judal at an angle so perfect he’s got to be bruising that sweet spot inside him, biting his neck until he bleeds, hands clutching his hips until they dig into bone. _Want to see you cry and scream and hurt and love it,_ he thinks mindlessly, the friction and the water a strange, abrasive counterpoint to the sweet slickness of Judal’s ass. _Want to see you reduced to nothing but the love you have for me inside you._

 

God, Judal can nearly _taste him._

 

There's no hope for catching his breath, not when his chest heaves, when shocks of agonizing, overwhelming pleasure repeatedly jab up his spine and leave his legs splayed wide, every muscle trembling with how deeply Sinbad's buried inside of him, stuffing him so full that he wishes he could _see_ _it_ as much as he can _feel it._ It hurts, too, and Judal relishes it--that sharp edge to it all that leaves him sobbing, his voice breaking into mindless, hoarse little shrieks when Sinbad fucks him so perfectly that his vision blurs and god, he doesn't _want_ to see if he can just feel this all the time. 

 

He's sure he leaves bloody scratch marks down Sinbad's back as he comes, clawing into him like a wild thing as his body lurches and writhes. Just spilling himself between them is _nothing_ compared to the aftermath, the shocks that leave him twitching long after, each one feeling as if it goes straight to every nerve and leaving him gasping, shuddering, useless and boneless.

 

It’s probably a kindness, how fast Sinbad loses himself.

 

Judal looks like a man on the edge of reason, on the edge of _consciousness_ , and it’s with a deep, shuddering groan that Sinbad spills deep inside him, holding him so tightly he’s surprised he doesn’t hear anything _breaking_. Thank god for the water, cradling the both of them as choppy little waves break around their shoulders and backs, slowly returning to stillness no matter the heaving of Sinbad’s breath.

 

He drops his head onto Judal’s shoulder, a spent, useless thing. “Your king,” he pants, voice hoarse and cracked.

 

"Mine," is the breathy _whimper_ to follow, trembling hands clinging as tightly as they're able to Sinbad's hair, the only thing Judal is really even capable of grasping right then. God, he's going to pass out. He wouldn't even mind--if anything, he hazily thinks, that makes it that much _better_. 

 

Sinbad can’t help but grin against Judal’s shoulder. “I was going to say at least I don’t have to carry you to the tub this time, but I think I’m going to have to carry you to bed.” Not that he minds. Spoiling Judal is entirely too much fun. “And you can sleep on me like the first night.”

 

"Good," Judal rasps, eyes fluttering shut as he sags down a bit, never mind the water lapping just beneath his chin. "You're a really good pillow. God, can you fuck me like that all the time?"

 

Sinbad blinks at that, pulling back just a little. “Really?”

 

Judal stares up at him, gaze half-lidded and still a little unfocused. "Yeah. _Really._ " He shivers, squirming a little. "Anytime you want."

 

It’s hardly the usual response, from anyone. From the most voluptuous girls to the cold strength of Ja’far, the overwhelming response has been _Yes, that was the best I’ve ever had, and we should do it again next year after the bruises fade._ It’s why he’s so damnably careful whenever he can be, and rarely lets himself lose it all like he does with Judal.

 

Ah, well. It looks like he’s really _not_ able to stop kissing those pretty lips after all.

 

Judal exhales a long sigh that's more a purr than anything, never mind that his mind is still fuzzy around the edges, with every muscle quickly trying to succumb to exhaustion. "Bed," he mumbles, nipping lightly at Sinbad's lips. "Before the water gets cold." 

 

“I’m the king,” Sinbad groans, even as he levers them up, feeling the rush of gravity back to his body as he lifts Judal’s limp form. “I could just have them keep filling it with hot water day in and day out.” He wrinkles his nose, wrapping Judal in a towel before tossing him gently onto the bed. “You’d get all pruny though.”

 

"Not good," Judal agrees, flopping uselessly back, and only exerting enough effort to roll himself to the side and make more of a cocoon out of himself, towel, and sheets. "I'm supposed to look good for you, after all."

 

Sinbad hits the bed a few seconds after, repressing the urge (trained out of him by Ja’far years ago) to just shake like a wet dog. “You’d dress up all nice for me? Even if there’s no one else around to see you and tell you how lovely you are?”

 

Judal blinks at him sleepily from over the edge of the blankets. "I don't care what anyone else has to say," he airily replies, and rolls towards Sinbad's side, a full tangle of bed coverings now. "If you saw me and said that, though, that'd be good." 

 

It’s easier than it should be to fold himself around Judal. He’d always thought, somehow that it was only girls who really _fit_ in a man’s arms, but Judal wriggles his way in as if he’d been born to it, warm and pliant and welcoming. “You’re always lovely,” he says softly, and oh, he hadn’t expected how soon sleep would creep over him, now that he’s warm and relaxed and clean. So he’d conquered a country and an ex-Magi. Not too bad, for a day’s work.

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

A month passes, and as far as Ja'far is concerned, little changes. 

 

Sinbad is far too comfortable keeping Judal as a well-groomed pet, and no matter how _subdued_ the ex-Magi seems to be, Ja'far is far from fooled. A month away from Al-Sarmen changes nothing. Perhaps he is placid now, acting like some tamed wildcat, purring as he curls himself into Sinbad's bed, but Ja'far knows, and knows it _well_ , how quickly he would be inclined to return to Al-Sarmen's ranks, if power and prestige were granted to him once more. 

 

At least Sinbad has the sense not to let him out of the palace still, no matter how he dresses Judal like he's his most favored concubine--no, worse, his damned _consort._ Ja'far isn't convinced at all by the hesitation in Judal's steps when he ever does venture from Sinbad's rooms, nor the way he's startlingly reserved (maybe even attempting for shy) in the company of the other generals, all while Sinbad feeds him peaches and cheerfully strokes his hair. 

 

Ja'far accepts the sympathetic pats on his shoulders for all of this, especially when the vast majority of Sinbad's orders have been uttered through a cracked bedroom door for the past month. 

 

It's fine. If Sinbad wants to waste away with a leech, then by all means, he can do it. Ja'far's irritation is, again, never in the bedmates the man keeps, but Judal _himself_ , and how Sinbad tends to lose sight of everything when in the wretch's presence. _He's not worth it, the novelty of him will wear off_.

 

Or so Ja'far hopes (even if he knows it won't).

 

The other alternative, of course, is better finding out Al-Sarmen's intentions, now that they are minus a Magi and with the Kou empire strangely quiet. Leads are hard to come by, especially within Sindria's walls, but there's a rare day that comes--or night, in this case, when all falls into place, and the whispers his spies are privy to lead him exactly where he needs to go, never mind that there isn't even time to leave word as to where he's going, aside from a short request to Masrur to watch Sinbad's door for the night instead. 

 

Theoretically, this _would_ be more challenging of an expedition. Pursuing those of higher rank within Al-Sarmen always is, and Ja'far knows well of their skills. What he doesn't expect is more than one, to feel so unprepared and overwhelmed like he hasn't since he was a child, and left simultaneously cursing and wondering _why_ so many of Al-Sarmen's strongest were here, and what were they _planning_. 

 

Thoughts he wishes he had time to properly question them on, perhaps when he regains consciousness (if he ever does--a very real threat, he knows).

 

_Sorry, Sin._

 

~

 

Judal's never been a morning person, and Sinbad's bed makes him that much less of one as time goes on. It's _warm_ , especially when sunlight pours in through the windows by noon, leaving him to sigh and stretch and enjoy snuggling his way against Sinbad until they're properly tangled. 

 

The more he thinks about it, the less he _misses_ being a Magi, if this is what he has to look forward to day in and day out--and as time goes on, he's more and more convinced that this is it, _this_ is where he'll be even a few years from now, and it's a terribly reassuring thought.

 

"Hey," Judal sighs into Sinbad's ear to wake him, nipping at the lobe of it as he wriggles his way closer. "Freckles is late, and I'm hungry." 

 

Sinbad throws a sleepy arm out over Judal’s waist, yanking him close to shut him up for a moment, just one more moment of sleep. Judal is warm and wriggly and smells perfect, and if those aren’t all the qualities of his perfect bedmate--along with the constant desire to please him, to please them _both_ \--he’s not sure what the hell is. He’s content, in a way he’s rarely been, and god, it would be nice to stay that--

 

Wait, Ja’far is _late_?

 

 _Ja’far_ is late?

 

The pleasant haze of sleep fades from Sinbad’s eyes in a second, and he sits up, a frown creasing his brow. Sure enough, he can tell by the angle of the sun that Ja’far should have been in trying to bully him into clothing and meetings and food at least an hour ago. “Maybe he’s finally given up,” he says uneasily, standing all the same. Which would be worse? If it were true, and Ja’far had written him off as a lost cause? Or if it weren’t, and there’s something wrong?

 

There’s something wrong. He knows it, knows it as well as he’s ever known anything, and he yanks the door open, totally unsurprised to see Masrur. “Where’s Ja’far?” he demands.

 

Masrur hardly blinks at his state of undress, after all these years. “He left in the middle of the night. Asked me to watch your room.”

 

Sinbad doesn’t bother to ask if Ja’far said where he was going. He hadn’t. He wouldn’t. If it was important enough to leave his self-appointed duties, it would be important enough to keep quiet.

 

His mind races as he puts on his clothes and, for the first time in a month, every bit of his jewelry.

 

Judal is still blinking sleepily by the time Sinbad is dressed, and he watches with a tilt of his head, frowning. "What's gotten you all riled up?" he mumbles, throwing his legs over the side of the bed with a stretch. "Miss a meeting or something? You're the king, just reschedule it." 

 

“Ja’far doesn’t miss meetings, not even meetings to wake me up. There’s something wrong.” Sinbad clips his headdress into place, then raises his arms, summoning his shields. “No one should be able to get in--well, Aladdin obviously can, but you didn’t seem to mind that too much. You can come and go, so you can get to the kitchen if you want.” He leans over quickly, pressing a kiss to the top of Judal’s head.

 

Judal's brow furrows, and there's a distinct, uncomfortable wash of _uselessness_ that sweeps over him. It's a rare thing, honestly, when he _knows_ he can't do anything--that Al-Sarmen has left him this way, and Sinbad tells him it's fine, that he'll keep him safe and he doesn't have to _worry._

 

It's watching Sinbad, obviously and openly concerned, that makes that feeling of being utterly powerless return.

 

Even if he doesn't like Ja'far--and Ja'far certainly doesn't like _him_ \--it's--ugh. He hates this. "… Okay," he exhales, and then his mind wanders again, thinking, sharply and immediately, to what he remembers of Ja'far. How no matter how easily it was to overwhelm a Household Vessel user with the quantity of his own magoi, he remembers Sinbad's confidence in the man, and a little flutter of nervousness rakes down his spine. _What if it's someone that can hurt Sinbad, too?_ "You're not going alone, are you?" 

 

It’s oddly touching, the way Judal’s brow creases in actual _worry_. So many of the emotions that splay across his face, it looks as if he’s discovering for the first time, and he’s curiously childlike about it. Sinbad gives him another quick kiss, then straightens up, setting his shoulders. “I’m much faster that way.” _Not to mention I don’t have to worry about other people getting in the way--or worse yet, losing any more of my people._

 

“Don’t worry about me.” He grins, flipping his hair back over his shoulder. “I’ll be back before you know it, and you can get on with harrassing Ja’far before the night is out.”

 

_Or there will be an awful lot of dead people who didn’t need to die._

 

What does a person say to that? 'Just be careful' or… everything seems redundant, especially to someone as strong as Sinbad, but still… 

 

"You're not allowed to die," Judal quietly reminds him instead, flopping onto his back again in open resignation that he's stuck here being useless again. 

 

That probably shouldn’t make Sinbad quite as warm as it does, that fierce sense of protectiveness that Judal’s exuding, but hell, he’ll take it. It’s the last image he has before he leaves, with the single word to Masrur to watch, knowing that he’ll infer anything else that needs to be done.

 

He’d be a poor king if he were totally unable to find his generals, especially Ja’far. What he needs for this is quiet, and solitude, and somewhere deserted. So, he heads for the desert, not bothering with any of the conservation of magic and just using the damned portals. Ja’far can yell at him later for it--well, if he can.

 

And that is the most sobering thought of all.

 

He settles into a kneel, closing his eyes as the hot sands bake around him, and calls on his djinn. A ruthless tracker, with the keenest ears, eyes so sharp they can see around the curve of the world, a nose that can pick out the difference between different men’s blood--that’s what he needs now, and the scales ripple over his body, twisting, distorting him until he hums with power. 

 

Come on, Ja’far, he thinks, the icy cool of his djinn settling into his veins. Help me find you.

 

" _Sinbad_."

 

The name is little more than a hiss, low and mocking, _laughing_ at him on the shifting of the desert's sand, all preluding the sudden rush of black rukh that warps into the form of a man, cloaked in Al-Sarmen's black and thorns. "Have you come to offer us an explanation?" is the rasp of a voice to follow. "Or perhaps you are merely handing your general back to us. We would have him with open arms."

 

In his current form, the voice is loud enough to be painful, and Sinbad’s scales ripple as he straightens. At least the desert air is hot enough to warm the cold blood running through his veins, giving him the energy to strike in a lightning’s flash if he needs to. “I never took him from you,” he says mildly. “Even after more than a decade, you refuse to admit he left you willingly. Surrender him to me.”

 

"You have him chasing us," is the simple, _amused_ sounding retort. "Why?" 

 

Sinbad’s smile is so snakelike he’s certain Ja’far would be proud. “I have declared you my enemy a hundred times over. What more need I say?”

 

"You have never _sought us out_." The words are more a collective hiss of many than merely one man. "If you wish to make a move against us now, you are far, far too late. You are merely one man, an _unchosen_ king." 

 

“None of that has anything to do with the fact that you will give me my general back.” His ears prick; something, some noise? It sounds like his quarry, maybe the shift of Ja’far’s feet. Say something, he urges, eyes focused on the swarm of a man as his hidden ears strain in the other direction. Grunt or whisper or snore, let me know you’re alive and I will be at your side.

 

"You may have him," comes the obscenely mirthful reply. "But you will no longer want him. Perhaps as an example only, then, of why we request for you to keep your _distance_." 

 

The man dissolves as quickly as he appeared, a fluttering swarm of darkness that drops a crumpled heap of bloodstained linen upon the sand mere seconds later. The heap _moves_ a second later, a sort of wheezing, reflexive breath more than anything else. 

 

" _We'll be watching_ ," is the hiss in Sinbad's ear before it's swept away by the wind. " _Send him again, or come yourself, and we will keep you._ " 

 

Sinbad has never shed a djinn equip and entered another so quickly, a rush of power spurred on by his rage, his pure, liquefied fury that takes to the desert in a reality-splitting howl. Before the sand displaced by Ja’far’s fall has stopped moving, Sinbad has him in his arms, taking to the sky and streaking towards Sindria with all of the speed of the gods’ falcons.

 

He can hear it, feel it, almost taste the still-beating heart, swaddled in more pain and torture than any body should be able to take, and Sinbad clutches him with arms that are less human than he wants them to be right now.

 

“I’ll fix this,” he swears, around half-alien teeth. _And then I will find them and rip the souls from their bodies, flaying them to the core as they scream for mercy and find none._

 

Yamuraiha is gone, he remembers with sudden, startling clarity.

 

Ah, well.

 

Aladdin might not be _his_ Magi, but he’ll heal Ja’far, whether because he’s inclined to or because Sinbad is more than willing to force him.

 

Being _touched_ is like a thousand white-hot pinpricks of pain, and it's hard to force the air in and out of his chest with that in mind. 

 

 _Not yet_ , is the dim order Ja'far gives his lungs. _He's still alive, so I have to be, too._

 

Morever, he _knows_ it's Sinbad, knows from the warmth and power that both hurts and soothes, and it would be nice, right then, to be able to lift a hand and grab onto some part of him--feathers would be the easiest, Ja'far is guessing.

 

"Sinbad?" That's Pisti, a blur of a voice as Sinbad undoubtedly strides past her. "Sinbad, what--" Judging by her gasp, he must look as awful as he feels. _Fantastic_. "I--I'll contact Yamu right now, though she's so far away I'm not--"

 

Sinbad thinks he gives some kind of nod--yes, get her here, he’s going to kill her for not being here, doesn’t she know Ja’far _needs_ her--on his way, keeping his stride as even as possible to not jostle Ja’far even more.

 

He’s not quite sure what happens to the doors along the way. Maybe he shoulders them aside. Maybe they just vanish, or explode. He doesn’t really think about it.

 

Aladdin’s room is the most comfortable, if not the largest of the guest rooms, and Sinbad doesn’t hesitate to walk right in, giving Aladdin a look that makes him roll out of bed, laying Ja’far gently down as soon as it’s vacant. The feathers ripple down into flesh, his hair changing back to its original color and shape, though his eyes don’t waver from the bleeding, broken form in front of him. “Fix him.”

 

Aladdin swallows. His heart pounds hard, telling him _no, no, no, no_ with every beat. Ja’far is too pale--the vibrant splashes of color are worse than the paleness, but all of it makes him sick, makes him want to scream. This is _Ja’far_ , he’s supposed to be strong and untouchable and _okay_ , he’s not a frail old woman that can be taken down by just anything, he’s supposed to be able to _rely_ on Ja’far being there.

 

He doesn’t need Sinbad growling at him to make him work. What he needs is _knowledge_. 

 

The water doesn’t rise as well to his command as he wants it to--if only he’d _understood_ magic when Yamuraiha had been teaching him! If only she were here now, or if Judal--

 

Aladdin walks out the window without a second’s hesitation, the carpet whisking him up to Sinbad’s room, and the shield proves no more of a barrier than the last time. He grabs Judal’s hand, tugging firmly. “Please, please, you have to come, I need your help.” His face is wet, hand shaking. “I don’t know how to use the water magic, I didn’t get that far and I’m a red mage anyway--”

 

As much as the ruckus makes him curious, Judal _knows_ he has no place to become involved. It's a horrible, _obnoxious_ feeling, when he used to not give a damn, used to stick his nose into everything and now it's just--

 

He doesn't have the _right_ to meddle in these peoples' lives (did he ever?). 

 

That's why when Aladdin appears at his window, grabbing at him, face tear-streaked and voice desperate, Judal hesitates. And it's not just that, it's the sheer fact that he's no teacher, he's no _healer_ , for that matter, and when was the last time he even thought of using water for anything more than a blade to run someone through?

 

"I'm--you _know_ I don't have any magic, so trying to do something like that--" Dread twists in his stomach, and he barely stops himself from asking _it's not Sinbad, is it?_ because that would change everything and he knows it. If it's Ja'far… no, of course it's Ja'far, and he supposes that's different in a way, too, because if Ja'far dies, Judal knows, no matter how it makes his chest tighten, that something of Sinbad dies, too, and that's… not acceptable. 

 

"… Take me there."

 

It’s a good thing Judal says yes. It’s good because of what it means, about how maybe he’s really changing, and how he’s a better person than he thinks he is, and maybe Aladdin _will_ see his way clear to really trying to restore his connection to the rukh.

 

It’s also good because Aladdin’s not really sure what he’d do if Judal said no.

 

He hardly rides the carpet so much as falls, dragging Judal into the room and kneeling over Ja’far, clearing the room of everyone else with one glance. They can feel it, the ripple of his magoi, and in the end only Sinbad is left, holding one of Ja’far’s hands and looking strangely hollow.

 

Aladdin ignores him too. He has to, if he’s going to work. The sight of Ja’far’s chest and belly twists at his heart, and his vision blurs again with tears as he looks up at Judal. “Tell me what to do.”

 

 _Stop crying_ , Judal wants to mutter at him first and foremost, but what good is that going to do when Sinbad is there, too, looking nearly as dead as Ja'far? 

 

There's an instinct, still, to reach out and gather rukh to his fingertips, to twist it to water as easily as breathing, and for the first time in awhile, he feels a real, aching stab of loss. _Sharrl Shica to see, isolate and mark each injury with Sharrl Jisaki, an all over, supportive heal with Sharrl Iiys, then tend to deeper, more severe injuries with a combination spell and check for stability after that. How do you not know this, what kind of teachers did you_ have _? Fire magic's annoying and I can still recite every spell._  

 

But he's teaching, so he can't say that. Right. How does a person _teach_ , exactly? "You can order the rukh to water properly, at least, can't you? You want it over your hands, fingertips, really--really thin and light. Tell it _Sharrl_ _Shica_ \--it's a spell that will let you see his injuries wherever your hand is close to… lungs are a good place to start," Judal suggests with a quick glance, grimacing at the tenuous rise and fall of Ja'far's chest. "You have to isolate what's wrong, first and foremost. When you've found something… you can sort of mark the worst spots, but just try and see everything right now." 

 

Judal hesitates, then drops a hand atop Aladdin's head. "And stop… shaking, crying, doing all that. Using water's a lot more nitpicky than fire, so just focus, don't give a damn about anything else except making it work for you."

 

What Aladdin wants to do is to fix Ja'far, not just see what's wrong, and he nearly says as much, only to stop himself at the last second. There's no use in running blindly into walls, and if he'd known, if he'd been a better student, if he'd--

 

There's no time for that, either.

 

"Sharrl Shica," Aladdin whispers, and oh, the rukh flock to his command. They flow, with the pulse of his breath like the waves on the shore, lighting up what must be the worst of the injuries. The chest is...if Aladdin weren't using the spell, he'd say it was bad, but the water is calming. It doesn't relax or soothe, but it calms, letting him see and understand the problem more clearly without adding his own water.

 

He's not sure it is water, exactly, but it's rukh, clear and pure and simple, white and fluttering from his fingers--and now he sees the water, a fine film of it, almost a mist. There, it tells him. And there, and there.

 

"I have them." If nothing else, at least Aladdin knows himself to be a quick study.

 

"You want to mark them, then, so your healing spell knows exactly where to focus," Judal tells him, eyes lidded as he _wishes_ he could see, wonders more so what white rukh looks like in this state, because it's been so long that he can't quite remember. "That's a spell called _Sharrl Jisaki_. You already have the water gathered--it wills it into his body, and creates something like an anchor point for the actual healing spell to latch onto and work… and that spell is _Sharrl Iiys._ You need to gather more water for that, and you want it to envelop him like it has your hand-- _slowly_ ," he immediately cautions. "Given those anchor points, and a steady supply of rukh… just commanding the spell will do all of the work. Just don't flood all of the rukh into it at once."

 

"Sharrl Jisaki." It's probably better, for at least right now, that he's working with water. It keeps him from pushing too much of his emotions into the spells, keeps him collected when he would probably be able to destroy most of the world right now with fire. Fire speaks to him, calls to him, shows up when he's upset and whirls the world around for him. Water, he has to coax--more than that, he has to understand.

 

How someone like Judal is a water mage...

 

One thing at a time--something else he has to use water for--and Aladdin can see it, the damaged spots (so many, too many, poor Ja'far) lighting up in his mind rather than in front of his eyes, as the spell pools, latching on in a way that Aladdin hopes doesn't hurt.

 

He takes a deep breath, lets it out, takes in another. This is the part that will be tricky, he knows. This is the part that could hurt Ja'far, could kill him if he does it wrong.

 

Water rises to his command, and Aladdin thanks every second he spent with Yamuraiha that wasn't spent looking at her breasts. It waits, filling him slowly, ready, patiently eager, and the words flow from his lips as if they were always supposed to be there.

 

"Sharrl Iiys."

 

Judal can't help but remember his first times with this spell as it flutters to light, enough strength behind it that even he, as utterly cut off as he is, can see it. It's far from child's play, and yet wasn't he younger still than Aladdin, given an attendant and a knife and told to use her to practice?

 

He briefly recalls not wanting to. He doesn't remember much after that. 

 

A little shudder sweeps down his spine and Judal spares a tentative glance at Sinbad, hoping for _some_ sort of reaction, _anything_ , maybe a bit of praise for helping. He knows, logically, that he won't a hear a word, won't be bestowed a single touch until Ja'far is _fine_ , and that sits with him uneasily. "… You'll feel the anchors start to disappear naturally as everything heals," he quietly says, looking away again. "And if they don't, even after a little bit of this, that means you need to focus this spell more directly on those injuries rather than an all-over healing. When you're just starting, it's better to just dissolve the spell entirely, and start it over again, rather than trying to switch it around. Some of it, you still might not be able to get completely, and that's fine. The body has to heal on its own a bit, anyway… ah, look, he took a deeper breath." 

 

That Ja'far is breathing at all is so much of a relief Aladdin could melt. He doesn't, though. He remembers seeing the great caverns carved by water, a split in the land that Ugo had told him took thousands of years, being stunned that water, just the stuff that he drinks, could do something so powerful and artistic and focused and deadly.

 

He'd never doubt it again. He feels like the cavern now, hollowed out by the rush of water, left carved and worn away until he's empty, with all the layers of himself showing.

 

Still, he smiles, a bit tiredly. "I can do it again. He's got a lot more hurts. Can..." He wavers a bit on his feet, but steadies himself. "Will you stay to show me again?"

 

Dumb kid. Judal's eyes roll to the ceiling and he reaches forward, fingers pressing tentatively to the pulse on Ja'far's near wrist. Far steadier than he expected, only with an occasional quickening that makes him wonder how conscious the guy is for all of this. That incites a twinge of pity even from _him_. "He's stable enough now for you to take a break, and you _should_. Eat something, at least. You can't mess around with this stuff," he chides, and leans away to snatch up a nectarine from the bedside table to shove at least that in Aladdin's face after taking a bite himself. "It's not lethal, but there's something weird with the muscles… uh, maybe not muscles, but tendons? In his wrists and arms… You can kinda see it, look at how limp his fingers are." 

 

Moreover, the more he looks at it, the more he _thinks about it_ , now that he's calmer and Aladdin's calmer and Ja'far probably isn't going to die--it's familiar. 

 

_"Some opponents you won't want to kill, Judal. Disable them, leave them alive for us to question. Depending on their abilities--legs first, or arms first. Learn to make a decision quickly."_

 

His stomach churns. _Ja'far_ , he thinks, _probably would have been both. But arms first, definitely._

 

"… If you're gonna work on healing something like that, you really need to be able to focus. Don't do it all at once or you'll really fuck something up."

 

The first rush of sweet juice over his tongue is strong and bright enough to clear away a fog Aladdin hadn't even known he was in. He blinks, coming back to himself, and leans slowly against Judal. His stomach rumbles, and suddenly it feels like the old days, when he'd needed to eat a wagon full of melons just to bring Ugo into the world for a minute. 

 

But Ja'far still looks so pale, and Judal is right, his fingers look wrong. They look like a doll's fingers, collapsed against the bed, and the odd little tremors that wrack his limp body make Aladdin shiver. 

 

"You're sure he'll be okay?" he asks doubtfully. "I could maybe do a little more..." 

 

The water is dangerous though, relentless and cold, and it'll seep through any tiny crack that he's foolish enough to leave. Slowly, Aladdin's head drops onto Judal's chest. "Maybe a little break," he concedes in a mumble. "Then I'll fix him the rest of the way."

 

"Don't fall asleep, he's not _that_ well off," Judal mutters, giving the boy a little shake before he grabs another piece of fruit and shoves it into Aladdin's hands. "Eat. You don't have to fix him all the way right now, either. Fix the vital organs, stop internal bleeding all the way, that's the trick. Come back and do the really nitpicky stuff later… or let your magician woman do that, it might be better if someone inexperienced isn't messing around with things that delicate. Isn't like he needs to be up and around and doing paperwork or killing stuff or whatever he does anytime soon, anyway."

 

Aladdin nods, firming his stance. "Right, okay. I--"

 

"Here." It's the first time Masrur has spoken since entering the room, with a bowl of food that might be more properly referred to as a bushel. "Eat."

 

Aladdin doesn't hesitate. His mind is full of vital organs, blood flow, tendons and muscles and brain damage and hadn't Sphintus said something about blood and air and the brain?

 

He swallows hard, about halfway through the bucket of food, and asks, mouth still full, "Were his lungs torn up for too long? I think my friend said that if you don't breathe for too long the blood stops going to your brain and you get...funny." Not exactly the phrase Sphintus had used, but probably more accurate and appropriate in company.

 

"He looked like he was still breathing a little when you started working on him," Judal hazards, a hesitant glance darting over to Sinbad. "So he's probably okay…" _Probably._ "Um, actually, I think he might even be… at least half-conscious." It begs the question of what mettle Ja'far is even _made of_ , really, or if he's just really fucking stubborn. Maybe both.

 

Aladdin wolfs down the rest of the food in record time, feeling the rush of calories steady his magoi, restore his spirit. He'll need a nice long sleep afterwards--he really hates water magic--but at least this will do for now. "Ja'far?" he asks quietly, wiping his hands on his pants and settling again at his bedside. "If you can hear me, it's Aladdin. Judal and I are helping you get better, okay? So don't worry about anything."

 

He tucks his feet up, holds out his hands, and summons the rukh. Ja'far will be fine. He has to.

 

None of them are ready for what Sinbad will do if he isn't.

 


	10. Chapter 10

When Ja'far wakes--really wakes, with his eyes cracking open just far enough to know that he much prefers them closed--everything still blossoms with agony.

It's easy to forget, after all of these years, how precisely cruel Al-Sarmen's 'interrogation' techniques can be, especially if one is particularly close-mouthed as he. Easier to forget still is that he isn't quite so invincible, and ah, when was the last time he had been injured to this extent?

Embarrassing, at best. 

Ja'far heaves a sigh, his eyes shutting again as he makes no real attempts to move. Everything feels like lead, anyway, his arms and legs especially, with his fingers numb and tingling and he wonders when their full use will be back, exactly--or if they've even been healed properly at that. He doesn't remember much past initially being able to breathe right again, with Aladdin and… Judal's, oddly enough, voices lingering in his ears.

An eyeblink.

It's not much, as far as movement goes, but it's what Sinbad's been waiting for.

As soon as it's followed by another and another, he's at Ja'far's side in a second, kneeling on the floor to avoid jostling him even the slightest bit. "Are you in pain?" he asks, the most important question first. He can tell that Ja'far is in pain, but what he says, if he can answer, if he's willing to admit that he's in pain, those are the responses he needs. "I sent Aladdin to sleep, but I can have him here in ten seconds." And he'll be personally murdering Yamuraiha's driver.

"Sin." No matter how tired his voice or how hoarse it is, prompting him to swallow after the fact, it's still duly irritated. "Let the child sleep." At least it's a dull pain now, not something sharp and strained, and really, if he can't deal with this, then Ja'far sees himself as a poor candidate to remain a general at Sinbad's side.

In a heartbeat, there's a glass of water resting at Ja'far's lips, close enough that he could sip from it, not tipped so far he's forced to. "He said he'll come back in a few hours anyway." God, Ja'far looks like death, and it's as much for reassurance that he's alive, that he's warm and breathing that Sinbad cups his head gently, helping him lean slightly up to drink. "Judal said you'd need a lot of sleep yourself after having the rukh work through you so much."

It's not the water that makes him choke but rather the mention of Judal's name in relation to any of this. God, he had hoped he was hallucinating. "He was there, wasn't he," Ja'far mutters after taking a long, relieved swallow and exhaling after the fact, his eyes shutting once more. "Why?"

"He didn't touch you," Sinbad assures him, the slightest hint of amusement entering him since the first time he'd realized Ja'far was missing. "Yamuraiha's too far away, and Aladdin needed help." He grimaces, trying not to think about how bad a state Ja'far had been in, that it had sounded like a reasonable plan. Then again, Aladdin hadn't exactly asked his permission.

Aladdin's good at that, come to think of it.

"How… reassuring." Sarcasm at its finest, certainly. Ja'far's next breath is slow and measured, a test to see if thinking about each inhale and exhale makes himself hurt less--it doesn't. "My apologies, to cause so many inconveniences."

“It’s good training for the boy. And I doubt Yamuraiha could have done as well, given her level of power and your…”

He trails off, swallowing hard. He hasn’t been letting himself think about it--he hasn’t really been letting himself feel it, knowing that if he did, he’d have to admit with every beat of his pulse that I almost lost you. “What…” What did they do to you, Ja’far? What were you doing, going after Al-Sarmen alone?

The worst question, the one he wants to ask least, is the blackest one hovering near his tongue. What did you tell them, under torture?

"Where would you like me to start?" It's a weary reply, and Ja'far thinks more and more how sleep would be a much better option right now. "I didn't tell them anything. They don't know about Judal." 

“I didn’t think you would.” Unless you had no other choice. Unless they pulled the levers of your mind, and don’t hate me for knowing that they’re the ones who set them up in the first place, my friend.

He wants to reach out and touch, to reassure himself that Ja’far is still warm and alive, but ah, they haven’t exactly patched anything up yet, have they? His hand makes an abortive little gesture, jerking awkwardly back to rake through his own hair and brushing aside a stray, leftover feather. “You should...get some sleep, no doubt.”

But you did. Did you think I would be glad to hand over your pet?

"It was a spur of the moment lead," he dully offers rather than surrender to the insistent pull of sleep. "You know we've been able to uncover anything regarding Al-Barmen's intentions as of late. I felt it would be amiss to not take the opportunity."

“Of course, of course. I never questioned for a second that you had your reasons, you understand.” It doesn’t help the pull of worry at his brow and damn, he’s going to get wrinkles from this. 

To hell with the fight. If Ja’far wants to hate him, he’s welcome to do so, but it won’t stop Sinbad from taking one pale hand in his own and lifting it gently to his lips.

Ja'far's eyes lid, and what little effort he has left in him is used to make sure his fingers don't twitch, but instead curve slowly about Sinbad's hand--not quite able to squeeze, but it'll do, for now. "… Still. I apologize--I miscalculated, and it's my mistake that has caused all of this trouble." 

The slight, slow, pained movement of Ja’far’s hand against his own is enough to bring a true, warm smile of relief to Sinbad’s face. “I think you gave me one or two gray hairs,” he chides, thumb stroking over the back of Ja’far’s hand. “I wouldn’t forgive just anyone for such an offense.”

"You had them already, don't blame me." Ja'far's lips slowly twist in sort of exhausted amusement. "More so, I apologize for still coming up empty. I'm not sure we are going to have an answer until they act on their own accord, Sin."

Sinbad sighs, leaning forward to brush the wispy hairs out of Ja’far’s face. “Then there’s nothing we can do about it. Stand down, go back to your office.” He smiles, giving that hand the slightest of squeezes. “That’s meant as a reward, not a punishment. After tonight, I’ll leave them alone myself.”

"… Will you?" is the skeptical retort. Think of the company you currently keep in bed, and whether or not that is even possible. 

“Oh, of course. After tonight,” Sinbad repeats, meaningfully. “That’s not to say that I won’t answer in force if they take issue with my personally reasonable behavior, of course.”

"Sin…" There are at least a dozen things to say--to chide him on, to tell him not to start more of a war than there already is, but it'll all fall on deaf ears, Ja'far knows, and so he gives in with a little sigh. "Focus more," he murmurs, "on concealing Judal all the more, should you wish to continue keeping him as you are. They'll watch us more now, and they'll see."

“Not if their eyes are plucked out,” Sinbad says lightly, for all the world as if it’s a joke. “Judal is safe enough, he doesn’t like leaving the room, and only Aladdin has been able to walk through the barrier I leave behind.” He hesitates, but why have an advisor if you only tell him the things he wants to hear? “I’ve asked Judal to try and teach Aladdin more magic.”

"That…" Ja'far's mouth twists. Putting bias aside--"… isn't a terrible idea. Are you sure Judal is stable enough to be capable, however? Or for that matter, that he won't tell Aladdin something lethal? I realize you have some degree of trust in him now, but your view is as biased as my own, you realize."

“It has nothing to do with my trust in Aladdin. As he is now, he’s dangerously untrained--a magician, certainly, but untrained as a Magi. And…” He trails off, a wry, almost rueful grin on his face. “If ever I were to face that boy in battle, I haven’t the slightest doubt that he would be on the right side. Maybe I’m just trying to ensure my future good behavior, hmm?”

Ja'far sniffs at that. "I was more concerned about Judal teaching Aladdin something that could potentially kill him. You are the least of my worries." 

That, at least, makes Sinbad laugh out loud, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the bed. “I think that if he didn’t instruct Aladdin to kill you, he’s a bit more declawed than you expect. Besides, I don’t think he wishes the boy any harm.”

And now it’s time to stop talking.

"You were there," Ja'far points out with a little roll of his eyes. "And I think we all know Judal's new goal in life is to elicit some sort of praise from you." 

“Praise he will certainly not get if he kills Aladdin,” Sinbad points out swiftly. “If my approval is what he craves, he could do much worse than train up the boy.” Almost offhand, he adds, “Oh, did you know his chosen king is Alibaba?”

Well. Sinbad's clearly made his decision regarding that already. Ja'far supposes it could be worse, so long as Judal does indeed remain declawed. "… I had my suspicions. He's made it official, though?" 

“Apparently.” Sinbad shrugs, tossing his hair back over his shoulder. “Maybe they’ll surprise us all.”

No, he’s not nearly drunk enough that such a thing sounds plausible.

"You don't sound as upset as I imagined you to be." Ja'far's brows slowly lift. "So content with the former Magi in your bed that you don't even mind? That's a bit romantic, even for you." 

“Ah, my apologies. I’ll stand outside in a thunderstorm and beat my breast and curse what’s already been done, shall I?”

"I was thinking more along the lines of the letters you'd have me draft to Scheherazade in spades now, but I suppose that works just as well." 

Ah, right. He’d known there was something he’d forgotten. “It can wait until you’re truly healed. I doubt you can even hold a pen right now.”

"Please don't remind me." Ja'far tries not to twitch. "I'll certainly need a scribe for tomorrow, if there is any way I'm to catch up on all that I missed today, let alone remain properly on schedule."

“Can you manage to retain a scribe without losing your temper this time?” Sinbad asks archly. “I do remember the last time Yamuraiha put you on bedrest. I’ll give you all the scribes in Sindria if you promise to leave off the wires.”

"It isn't my fault they are all slow and useless." Ja'far scowls. "There must be someone within Sindria that isn't entirely incapable of keeping a decent pace. Find me them, and I will… attempt to remain calm."

“Shall I hold auditions?” Sinbad asks, only half-joking. “That failing, I could ask very loudly in the streets who would be willing to die to keep a properly filed cabinet from falling over, and hire whoever screams the loudest.”

"Or barring that, you could be a little more responsible and handle your share at a respectable pace for once instead of rolling around in bed with Judal until three in the afternoon. Honestly, don't you get bored?"

“No,” Sinbad says quite frankly. Then, because that’s not entirely true, he adds, “At least, not so much that doing paperwork sounds pleasurable by comparison.”

"Governing your country should be a far more entertaining prospect," Ja'far grumbles, though it's an empty chide, more reflex than anything else. Really, if he hadn't accepted Sinbad's lack of drive towards any desk work by now… "Whatever. I won't throw anyone out of a window, just find me someone capable enough to stay on top of things. I refuse to allow my mistakes make Sindria suffer."

Strange, how the vast amount of time Sinbad feels as if it’s him being dismissed from Ja’far’s company. He stands, placing a kiss on the top of Ja’far’s head, then dusting one over his freckles out of force of habit. “I’ll send the first victim--er, scribe in before I leave. Do try not to murder anyone who tries to heal you? I’d consider it a personal favor.”

"I'll refrain." You don't have to leave. It's on the tip of his tongue, bitten back at the last second, and Ja'far shuts his eyes with a slow exhale. "If it is all right with you, however, I will try to rest in the meantime." 

Sinbad blinks. “Of course. Rest as much as you can.” He hesitates, hand on the doorknob. He should leave, and not make anything worse. It will be a more comfortable silence between them now--he knows their fights well enough to know that much.

For some reason, he speaks, though he tries to ignore the impulse. “If you’re awake--that is, I’ll look--may I check in on you, when I return?” I miss you, even when you’re right in front of me.

"Since when does my king need to request an audience with his advisor?" Ja'far sighs at that, the tiniest of smiles on his lips as he sags back into the bed, shutting his eyes. "I won't protest, certainly."

“Then I’ll be back.” And if you’re sleeping, I might just crawl in next to you and fill my nose with the smell of your skin until the morning. And if you’re awake, I might just sit and talk with you while you can’t escape until you fall asleep on my shoulder. “For a moment, at least.” 

Don't make it sound so pleasant. "As you wish, Sin."

~~

It had been a long night. After dealing with some of the agents who had captured Ja’far--probably not all, they’re slippery like that at the best of times, curse them--it had seemed natural, necessary even, to crawl onto the bed behind Ja’far instead of retreating up to his own room, burying his face in the back of the younger man’s neck and falling asleep almost immediately to the sound of Ja’far’s soft breathing. 

No matter that the dark of night has become bright sun, it feels like no more than two minutes have passed when he stirs, blinking sleepily at the sensation of movement in his arms. “Mmm. Sorry.”

"You're fine," is the sleep-husked sigh to follow. Normally waking to Sinbad wrapped around him is exasperating at best--now, though, it's a balm to sore, still-throbbing muscles and deep body aches, with the man's warmth seeming to permeate through his whole body and leave him far less in agony than he should be. "When did you get here?" Ja'far tiredly adds, cracking his eyes open to squint out the window. Too sunny to be terribly early, and that sort of makes him grimace. Another day lost, at this rate.

Sinbad huffs out a little laugh against the back of Ja’far’s neck, the soft fine hairs tickling his nose. “About an hour after I left. Didn't take me long. Forgot how much I like sleeping next to you.” Usually, of course, Ja’far doesn’t let him, preferring to take up as much or as little of the bed as he likes without having to worry about inconveniencing anyone--or at least not liking to be shoved about in his sleep. Still, there have been occasions, and Sinbad relishes them every time.

"I can't be that pleasant of a bedmate right now." Ja'far's eyes lid before simply sliding shut, content to slowly relax in spite of lingering pain. He tries not to think about how he must have been so very dead to the world if Sinbad had returned so quickly and he wasn't aware. More importantly, though--"You're warm," he murmurs, tipping his head back with a quiet sigh.

Very slowly, and as gently as if Ja’far were made of spun glass, Sinbad curls an arm around his waist. “You can have all my warmth. I’m just grateful you’re here to feel it.” Sappy, sentimental, and if he hadn’t been so totally terrified at Ja’far’s condition the previous day, he’d have kept it behind his lips.

It's impossible to repress his snort, no matter how the words are nice and he does rather like them, all the same. "So little faith in me, Your Majesty?"

Sinbad takes a slow breath, letting his eyes slide shut. “Mm. What I say next depends on how sleepy you are. Do you feel up to hitting me?”

"… Depends on how insulting it is." Ja'far wonders if he can lift a hand yet, anyway, or if it's even worth it.

“Ah, not insulting, just…” The smell of Ja’far’s skin is in his nose, maybe the only thing that keeps him calm now. How can he say that he’d thought he’d die too, seeing the bloody mess of Ja’far fall to the ground, even with his equip being almost unable to hear a heartbeat? “Only a bit sentimental.”

"I won't hit you for that." Ja'far lets his head loll back a bit more, eyes half-open as he looks up at Sinbad. "But lest you've forgotten--I have told you before that I have no intention of dying before you."

Odd, and a bit ridiculous, how much every beat of Sinbad’s heart relies on the continued liveliness of such a fragile creature. “When that thing dropped you...I thought I’d be following.”

"Not allowed," is the quiet chide in return. "You have a country to think of instead, you know."

“Not if you aren’t serving in it.” Sinbad buries his face in Ja’far’s upper back, inhaling deeply. “Sindria would fall apart without you in a matter of days, anyway. The best I could hope for would be to become a wastrel ruffian again.”

"You aren't that hopeless at paperwork," Ja'far grumbles, eyeing the fall of Sinbad's hair over his shoulder, stark against the paleness of his own skin, and he hazards lifting a trembling hand to grasp for it, frowning in concentration to make his fingers coil about it. "Besides, I found you just as tolerable as a wastrel ruffian. I'm sure the rest of the country would, too."

“Mmm. Maybe.” Except this time I’d know what I was missing. “Do you ever miss those days? Before I had a throne and you had an office?”

"I ended up sunburnt quite a bit more, so not particularly. Though… things were much simpler, weren't they?" Ja'far muses. "Sometimes, I wonder if you weren't happier then, never mind the endless supply of alcohol and women now."

“Much simpler,” Sinbad agrees. “Didn’t have to worry about thousands of people every time I wanted to do something, just about me, and you once I picked you up.” He smiles, pressing a soft kiss to the base of Ja’far’s neck. “I don’t mind, if you prefer things now. I’ve always been the simple one, you’re the smart one.”

"… The very idea of you being simple makes me wonder how far Judal's influence stretches upon you," is the dry retort to follow, Ja'far's fingers giving a weak squeeze upon Sinbad's hair that was probably supposed to be a tug. "Make a few heirs already, and Sindria will be good in hands when we both are dead and gone."

Sinbad nuzzles into the touch, a rueful smile on his face as he does. “I make heirs all the time, you just don’t seem to like them very much.”

"Legitimate ones," Ja'far wryly retorts. "You know, the kind you make with a wife."

Sinbad tries to repress the instinctive shudder that rakes through him at the word, but pressed close like this, it’s impossible to manage. “But if I had a wife--” god, the word is so sour on his tongue-- “I wouldn’t be able to spend mornings like this with you.”

"… I'm hardly a substitute for the type of woman you enjoy," Ja'far drawls, lips twisting in amusement in spite of himself. 

“No, you’re not,” Sinbad answers truthfully, curling a finger to bare just an inch of Ja’far’s shoulder to kiss. “They’re a poor substitute for you.”

Ah. Flattery, of the most awkward sort. At best, Sinbad would normally receive an eye roll for his efforts--now, however, and Ja'far is inclined to blame his injuries and the haze of pain that seems to be his existence, he gets a little shiver, a subtle burrowing back into Sinbad's much larger form. 

"I'm no woman." 

“Forget the metaphor,” Sinbad grumbles, vaguely annoyed with himself for forgetting how Ja’far hates being compared to his girls. “It was intended as an expression of how much I care for you. Your…” He’d almost lost Ja’far. Almost lost him, and the thought of how close he’d come….. "Be more careful, hmm? Think of what would happen to Sindria without you.”

You underestimate your own subjects, and everyone else that pushes paper in this place. 

But it's not worth saying, and so Ja'far leans back against him with a little shrug. "You've already told me that I am confined to office work again, haven't you? I'll steer clear of paper cuts."

Sinbad nearly protests that he’s only confined because of his injuries, but stops himself. In all honesty, if he could confine Ja’far for the next year, he would. “Good. Consider it your punishment for scaring the heart out of me.” He closes his eyes, rubbing his nose into the dip of Ja’far’s neck. “Your wires are wrapped around my heart, you know.”

"That sounds dangerous." All right, Sinbad's being slightly cute. Just slightly. Ja'far's shoulders roll a bit, his head tipping forward to openly allow Sinbad better access to the nape of his neck. 

“Very.” Sinbad buries his face, leaning forward to rest his hand on Ja’far’s chest, feeling the thud of his heart. “It hurts every time it beats. And if you get too far from me, we both know what would happen.”

A little scoff escapes before Ja'far can properly stifle it into a pillow, but it's affectionate, all the same. God, but Sin lays it on thick sometimes. "Well, then," he murmurs, deciding it's not such an awful thing to humor Sinbad right now, especially when the words make him smile. His fingers slide over Sinbad's, loosely clutching. "I suppose I'll have to be careful about not straying, then. My wires only stretch so far."

“Good. You can just stay here in my arms.” Sinbad smiles into the moonlight hair, pressing a kiss against Ja’far’s neck. “Not such a bad place to be, hm?”

The door opens a bit louder than necessary, and a blur bounces into the room. “Oh, I think they’re still sleeping,” Aladdin says, suddenly chagrined. “Can I heal him like that, or should we come back later?”

Any other time, Ja'far would have hastened to put distance between them. It isn't so much out of embarrassment as it is propriety, especially in front of a child. Now, with that hardly a possible thing, he merely sighs, shutting his eyes in resignation. Maybe he can feign sleep--

"They're not sleeping," is the familiar grumble to follow, and Ja'far feels his skin prickle. "Oi, stupid king. Move over and let Aladdin get this over with already."

Sinbad groans, stretching out in protest of moving. As much as it sends a less-than-good message to move away from Ja’far on Judal’s say-so (and when did his life get so complicated?), he does want Ja’far to get over that pain as soon as possible. He rises up, giving Ja’far’s hand a last little squeeze. “Got to let them work,” he says with a smile, taking up a spot in the corner. 

Aladdin gives Sinbad a big beaming smile, then hops onto the bed to kneel over Ja’far. “Are you feeling better? Do you need to eat? I wasn’t sure if it would be better if you had food or not. Oh, I drew you a picture!” he adds, pulling out a brightly colored scroll.

Ja'far settles upon ignoring Judal--easy enough, when Aladdin is beaming at him, the smile contagious enough that he can ignore the sharp twinge that goes through his nerves when he moves to prop himself up a bit. "I'm feeling much better, thanks to you," he reassures the boy. "And maybe later, I'll eat something… until then, show me what you drew?" 

Aladdin reaches out with charcoal-smudged fingers, pointing to each blob in turn. “This is you, lying down,” he explains, “and this is me and Judal helping. See the rukh? Oh, and that’s Sinbad with the sword. And Masrur’s head outside the door.” He reaches up, touching Ja’far’s cheeks, smiling broader when he feels the warmth of his skin. “Look, I even put your freckles in! Judal told me not to forget.”

Ja'far imagines it went more along the lines of grumbling about how Aladdin shouldn't forget his 'stupid freckles', but, ah, details. Aladdin is so honestly, earnestly sweet that there's not any real chance for him to be annoyed at the moment. "You're a very talented artist," he praises with a smile. "You'll have to let me keep that at my desk, once I get back to work… which should be soon, thanks to you… and Judal, so it seems." He spares the other boy a sidelong glance. "Thank you." It isn't quite as stiff as he imagined it would be, thankfully. 

Judal's head inclines, just slightly, and Ja'far thinks he might have muttered something about having not done anything, though it's hard to tell (not that he cares, either).

There’s a hint of sternness, stuffed with concern, in Aladdin’s expression. “You can’t go back too soon,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m gonna make sure you’re all healed up as soon as I can, but Yamuraiha probably needs to fix your hands.” He remembers something, and leans forward, laying a hand on Ja’far’s forehead. “Your brain didn’t go bad, did it?” he asks anxiously. “You weren’t breathing too well for a long time.”

He can't help but laugh at that. "I can assure you, keeping my brain from going bad was a priority on my end," Ja'far gently teases, tipping his head forward a bit into Aladdin's hand all the same. "If that happened, Sin would be in an awful state, now wouldn't he? He scarcely knows his way around the office, let alone the filing systems here." 

“Hey now,” Sinbad objects from his corner, but Aladdin laughs, no matter if there is a hint of fear--Ja’far has to stay alive, has to stay healthy, he doesn’t want to lose anyone else. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll have you really healthy again soon. I’m gonna do magic now though, so …” He looks back at Judal, curious. “Does he have to be lying down?”

Judal gives a small shrug from where he leans against the wall, obviously too uncomfortable about being in Ja'far's room to even consider properly sitting. "Doesn't have to be."

"I can lie down again if it's easier for you," Ja'far assures him, shifting to do just that. Ah, he'll be glad when it no longer is a challenge to move and keep from wincing the whole way. 

“Don’t worry,” Aladdin reassures him, settling into the most comfortable stance he can, preparing to hold it for hours if he has to. “You’ll stop hurting soon. I ate and slept a lot so I’m ready to go!” He breathes in deeply, looking over at Judal. “Sharrl Shica to mark the worst spots, right? Can I focus it on his whole body at once, or just parts?”

"… Generally, it's more effective in focused, spot treatment, but you can do everything at once if you keep the flow of your rukh steady enough." It was a lot easier to play teacher when Ja'far was unconscious. Now, he's just self-conscious, never mind that the snake doesn't even spare him a glance. Good, you've got creepy eyes anyway, don't look at me with them.

Aladdin bites his lip. He can do it. He’s sure. He hasn’t gone through years of training just to fail because he can’t control his own rukh.

Then again…

“Is it more dangerous to do it all at once? I--I want to make him better as fast as I can.” It hurts, to see Ja’far in so much pain, Ja’far who everyone knows is the ears and hands of Sindria if Sinbad is the heart and strong back. It doesn’t feel right that he should be so crippled, unable even to sit up or lie down without pain suffusing his face. And when Aladdin has the power to fix it, as he does, it’s his duty, isn’t it?

"If you're--" An idiot that can't control their rukh properly--nope, censoring that, considering their company. "If you can't keep everything steady, then yeah, it can be. Also, it's probably a little more painful." Kind of an understatement. When one has nearly every bone in their body broken and is rapidly healed over such a fast span of time, there's a deeper understanding of pain.

"Aladdin, it's fine," Ja'far dismisses. "Just do whatever you feel comfortable with--even if that's nothing right now. I don't mind waiting for Yamuraiha."

Well, that’s certainly unacceptable. As bad as it would be to cause Ja’far pain, he can hardly do nothing because he’s afraid of not being good enough. He was good enough yesterday, and yesterday he hadn’t practiced or anything.

He squares his shoulders, a frown creasing his forehead. “What’s the thing that’s worst?” he asks Ja’far. “I want to make sure I do everything right, so I’ll just fix what’s bothering you the most first.”

"Honestly, it's not anything terribly specific," Ja'far admits with a shake of his head. "You did a good job yesterday, Aladdin. At most, I think it's a rather large amount of deep tissue bruising left at this point… and of course, my hands and arms aren't in the best of shape, but if you just want to help with everything else, I'm sure Yamu can take care of those and save you the trouble." 

“It’s no trouble!” It’s a little heartbreaking, that even after all Ja’far’s done for him, he still talks about saving Aladdin the trouble of healing him. “Um, I think hands are really complicated and I know yours are really important to you, and Yamu knows a lot about stuff like that, so I’ll focus on the other stuff.”

The rukh flows easier today, the water already spilling from his fingers before he utters the first spell.

Aladdin is a quick study, there's no doubt about that. For that, Ja'far is eternally grateful. It isn't that he wouldn't mind waiting for Yamuraiha to return--Sinbad still looks as though he's going to kill something every time her name is mentioned, though--because less stress and strain on Aladdin is a good thing. That being said… if the boy is going to have anyone to practice on, Ja'far supposes he's as good as he can get, considering his higher pain tolerance, and the irritating severity of his injuries. 

It does hurt, but when does healing not? Ja'far is merely glad he's skilled at keeping his expression neutral, never mind the uncomfortable pinpricking deep within muscles and organs that aren't supposed to be so easily felt. After a moment, though, he can breathe even easier, and that beyond everything is a relief. "You'll outdo her soon, you know," he tells the boy teasingly. "Yamuraiha isn't pleasant when she's jealous."

To have Ja’far talking more easily, breathing more easily, sitting more easily--well, that’s worth it all, isn’t it? Aladdin heaves a sigh of relief, leaning over against Judal’s chest without really thinking about it as the room spins. “I really hope,” he says wistfully, his eyes slightly misted from his efforts, “that we can live in the kind of world where two healers is too many.”

"Too much," is the flat retort, and Judal gives Aladdin a little shake. Even if he can't see the amount of power that's being used, watching Aladdin is a pretty good indication. "Seriously, you don't have to fix every little thing. Let his body do some of the work, you're gonna hurt yourself if you keep this up." 

“But I helped.” Aladdin looks up into Judal’s face, eyes earnest and bright despite their fog. “I did a lot, I know I did.”

“You’ve done plenty,” Sinbad moves forward to reassure him. “Both of you have.” He gives Ja’far a Look--Didn’t they? Be nice, he helped save your life.

I already thanked him once, do you want me to rub his nose in it or something? "Both of you did, thank you," Ja'far says nonetheless, lifting a hand to gently ruffle Aladdin's hair, never mind the numbness still lingering in his fingers. "Go and eat something--or rest properly without worrying about me."

Aladdin butts his head against Ja’far’s hand, pride and satisfaction and determination all flickering over his face. This is a good step; if even Ja’far, who hates him so much, can admit that Judal did good, they’ll have Judal back the way he’s supposed to be and actually being helpful in no time. “Okay, and you get some rest too! The rukh is funny like that, it likes it when people take care of themselves.” He tugs on Judal’s hand. “Let’s go to the kitchen!”

No, dammit, I want to stay and get Sinbad out of here for at least ten minutes. Never mind that Judal knows Sinbad isn't going anywhere--an exasperated sound escapes before he can choke it back, even as he yields to Aladdin's tug with a last, quick glance in Sinbad's direction. 

"… The next time he is in here," Ja'far flatly says as the door shuts behind them, "drag him over here so I can tighten the fastenings of his robes and make them sit properly on his shoulders." How can the brat stand it to be slinking down all the time, anyway?

Sinbad very carefully represses any trace of a smile on his face. He’d known that if Ja’far could just spend a few moments with Judal as he is now, instead of the Judal with the power of a young god and the sense of a young chicken, he’d see just how changed the boy is. If he’s attempting to mother him already, well, that’s certainly a good start.

He sinks down to the bed, checking for himself that Aladdin’s left Ja’far in better shape. “He’s probably used to doing it with magic. He couldn’t even braid his own hair without help when he first got here.”

"Or he's trying to seduce you constantly--harlot," Ja'far mutters, idly shaking out one of his hands with a frown. Annoying, but of course Al-Sarmen would spend the bulk of their time, prior to nearly killing him, making sure he couldn't use a weapon properly. The sooner Yamuraiha returns, the better. 

Sinbad does smile at that, taking one of Ja’far’s hands between his own and gently rubbing. “When you’re better. Until then I think he knows I won’t leave your side.” I’d stay here once you’re well too, but you always think of a reason to put distance between us.

"… That better not be literal," is the low warning, never mind how it sounds less a threat and more a gentle chide. "You have duties as a king still, regardless of how I am."

Sinbad laughs, settling back onto the pillows. “It’s as literal as you’ll allow me to be. I wouldn’t want to be a burden on your convalescence.” He switches to the other hand, stroking along the just-healed tendons, gentle brushes of his thumbs. “I mean, I did conquer a kingdom just a few days ago.”

"Is that a request for a few days of rest and relaxation, then, Your Majesty?" Ja'far softly inquires, eyes lidding as his fingers twitch and flinch on their own accord before slowly curling. It doesn't hurt--it's more along the lines of not being able to feel the touch properly at all, which is a shame, knowing how pleasant it would probably be.

“Only if I can spend them with you.” Sinbad presses a kiss to the curled fingers before setting them down on Ja’far’s lap, moving down to pick up one of his feet. Probably not in as much pain as his hands--killing them once wasn’t enough, I should have kept them alive for days and made them truly regret--but there’s got to be little on his body that feels good after what he’d been through. “Otherwise, you know I get bored.”

"And you won't be bored sitting alone with me?" There's another, reflexive twitch and kick that follows Sinbad's touch, though this time, it has far more to do with being obscenely ticklish than anything else. Ja'far grits his teeth and tries not to growl. "Must you?" 

Sinbad tweaks a toe, then slides up to rub over the old raised scars on the inside of Ja’far’s legs instead. “Of course I mustn’t. If you’d prefer to have me rub something else, your wish is my command.”

Ja'far isn't sure how suspicious he should be of that phrasing, exactly. "The king, taking commands? Unseemly." Ah, but that does feel nice though… Ja'far sags back slightly, a slow rush of breath leaving his lungs. 

“Surely you’re the first to admit that you serve an unseemly king.” A slow grin spreads across Sinbad’s face at Ja’far’s expression, and he works his hands up and down, brushing a kiss across the ridge of one scar. “In fact, that’s one of the least offensive words you’ve ever used for me.”

It has something to do with how sore his muscles are, or maybe just how tired he is; that's why this feels so good. Ja'far shuts his eyes--inhale, exhale, don't shiver, too late--and fists a hand into the sheets as well as he's able, shifting to self-consciously press his knees together. "I could think of a few more insults. You seem to like them."

Ah, so it’s working. Sinbad rarely has the patience to touch Ja’far like this, not when just one of those shivers, one of those blushes, is usually enough to make him throw Ja’far onto his hands and knees and take him so hard he can’t walk for hours.

Now, with that removed as an option, well, there’s no choice but to be gentle. At least this way he can see the look on his face, see the changing interplay of expressions, find the spots that make him shudder and work them harder. “Of course I do. You’re at your most adorable when you’re insulting me.”

Ja'far's breath hitches, his toes slowly curling with each knead of Sinbad's fingers. "'Adorable'… please don't us that word," he mutters, his head tipping back as his teeth sink briefly into his lower lip. Really unfair, he wants to accuse the older man--he's in no state to ignore what Sinbad's fingers are capable of, or how good it feels when they dig just right into the worst of sore, bruised muscle.

Ugh, but maybe this once… he just won't ignore it. Nearly dying--really nearly dying--makes one reevaluate certain things.

It's with a shuddering little exhale that he unlocks his knees, letting his legs splay open, just a bit. "Come here," he quietly says, lifting a hand to slowly crook a finger.

Even after more than a decade, Sinbad is helpless. Helpless to resist anything like a command from Ja’far’s lips, helpless to try, helpless even to want to. It should probably be against some sort of law, to have the King this helplessly at someone’s beck and call, but it feels just too sweet to obey. He crawls up, obeying the crook of that finger, hovering near his advisor’s face; invitations are important, from Ja’far.

"You really thought I was going to die, didn't you?" Slim eyebrows arch, and Ja'far's knuckles slide over Sinbad's cheek, back through his hair to loosely tug him down. "How many times do I have to tell you that I will follow you until the end?" he adds in a murmur, spreading his legs to better cradle Sinbad's hips between his thighs. "It's far from the end yet--we still have a lot to do."

Sinbad sinks down into that welcoming embrace, holding his weight on his arms to keep from squashing Ja’far, much more of a consideration than he usually affords. He meets those lips--a bit chapped from worrying at them, something he always misses when he kisses anyone else--with his own, soft brushes, gentle movements, and oh, if he’s never treated Ja’far as spun glass before, he certainly is now. “Al-Sarmen likes to ruin my plans. They know how I value you, if not how I cherish you.”

Ja'far's eyes lid before shutting entirely, both of his arms winding their way around Sinbad's neck. "Then," he breathes, the part of his lips yielding a gentle scrape of his teeth against Sinbad's lower lip, "we will simply have to be smarter than them, and I will have to be stronger. I won't let this happen again."

“Nor will I.” Sinbad sucks softly on Ja’far’s lip, letting him go for a bare second before kissing him again. “Can’t have anyone saying I don’t take care of my generals. It would make me look bad as a king.”

He pulls back slightly, eyes meeting Ja’far’s dark black ones, his own more serious than usual. “And seeing you like that nearly killed me the first time. I won’t let it happen again.” To never kiss Ja’far again, to never feel the slight weight of him in his arms, to never be scolded or whacked by his hand again--

He could kill them all over again.

"It won't happen again," Ja'far simply agrees, fisting his hands tighter in Sinbad's hair no matter the effort it takes, tugging him back down. It hurts, the realization of how stupidly weak he is still capable of being, and furthermore, it makes him angry. If he's to remain at Sinbad's side, shouldn't he be better than that? I've become complacent and arrogant. Stupid, stupid, stupid--

For once, he willfully shuts his mind off, lurching up for another kiss, mouth and hands equally hungry.

Ah, he wants this too much. Ja’far’s mouth is a siren, luring him in with promises of paradise, the drag of soft hands a challenge as much as it is an invitation, and he only barely stops himself from being dashed on the rocks at the last minute. A long, deep kiss, and then Sinbad pulls back. His breath comes quick, his eyes shining as he murmurs, “You would entice me to far too much, my friend.”

A soft snort follows that and Ja'far sags back into the pillows, decidedly breathless and flushed. "Is it too much if I insist upon it?" he archly replies, and one hand's fingers tiptoe their way down Sinbad's arm, grasping for his wrist to pull the hand to his mouth. "It's an invitation," he simply adds, pressing his mouth to the palm of Sinbad's hand, his eyes darker still as his tongue flicks out on a little, hissing breath. "When has my king ever turned down such a thing?"

Sinbad lets out a groan and oh, this simply isn’t fair. Ja’far knows him too well, knows which levers to pull to elicit a strong response, knows better than anyone in the world how to make his king rise for him. “You,” he manages, voice hoarse and strained, “are supposed to be an invalid. You try my self-control when I’m trying to think of your well-being.”

And to prove it, Ja'far's lips drag up one long finger, teeth just grazing the tip of it before it catches against his lips and is drawn into his mouth with a languid suck and lave of his tongue. "Even still," he breathes, as he releases it again with a slick pop, "my body is yours, should you desire it."

Ah, well. He’d tried.

Sinbad slides down, a look of tormented acceptance on his face as he edges Ja’far’s sleeping tunic upward, baring him for Sinbad’s eyes. He nuzzles the top end of that scar, following the line of it to bury his face between the younger man’s thighs. He’d washed the blood and sand off of Ja’far himself, after Aladdin’s first healing, and there’s no trace now of any smell but Ja’far’s skin, subtle and enticing on his tongue as he opens his mouth, closing his eyes as he sucks in the tip of Ja’far’s cock.

If he won’t be a docile convalescent, he’ll at least enjoy himself.

The shudder that rakes down his spine is already almost too much to bear, and Ja'far thinks, a little hazily, that he rather likes it like this. It's easy right now, sinking down into the sheets and grasping at Sinbad's hair, splaying his thighs wider with a shiver, all because he isn't thinking about it, and once in awhile, that's fine.

Or so he thinks for the moment. That'll change tomorrow, but right now, god, Sin's tongue feels nice. 

This, the four or five times Ja’far has ever let him do it, is the most Sinbad is ever able to spoil Ja’far. He loves it, despite the taste and the technical difficulty of how exactly he’s supposed to lick and suck when his mouth is full, despite the nagging sensation that this is really the wrong side of dignified even for him--despite all of that, he loves it. Ja’far never abandons himself so much as now, when there’s no pained edge to the pleasure, when it’s all the slow drag of his mouth, the soft caress of his hands, the wriggle of his tongue up the underside of Ja’far’s cock.

The way his back arches isn't helpful for either of them--never mind that it lets his cock slide further along Sinbad's tongue and that's good, it reminds him of his own aches and pains, the little edge of tension that takes his breath away and leaves him trembling. 

He's a masochist, certainly, because Ja'far likes that, too.

His toes curl into the bedsheets and he belatedly lifts a hand to silence himself, biting into his own knuckles with a weak groan escaping around them as he squirms, each drag of his king's mouth make him twitch and tense all the more.

Breathing, that’s important. Sinbad tries to remember how to breathe--through his nose, yes, that makes sense--when Ja’far is sliding slippery slick and hard over his tongue, bumping against the back of his throat. For a second, he considers finishing Ja’far with his hand, something that’s at least a bit less strenuous than this.

Then he looks up, catching a sight of the lost, eager pleasure on Ja’far’s face, and he swallows hard, swirling his tongue around the head before diving down again until his nose brushes soft hairs.

It's more a squeak than anything that breaks from his throat, and Ja'far's eyes squeeze shut, his own breath sharp and fast through his nose. Sinbad's mouth is unfair, hot and slick around him and enough to leave him writhing with even the slightest prod of that tongue against him. When he dares open his eyes, just for a second, the sight is altogether too much--it's obscene how Sin looks between his legs, his own cock buried between his king's lips, and the tremor that rakes down his spine is as good as much as it hurts. 

He tries to keep himself still, or at least not to cry out when he comes, and he thinks he manages both at least partially, never mind the gasping, heaving breaths that fill his lungs as he spills over Sinbad's tongue.

It’s good form to swallow, and Sinbad does, licking his lips, then the tip of Ja’far’s cock until both are as clean as his tongue can make them. The taste isn’t any sort of problem, not when it’s so very Ja’far. It’s the texture that reminds him he’s drinking a man’s seed, and, well, at least he keeps himself from making a face. 

He wipes his mouth with his fingers, easing himself up to stretch out alongside Ja’far, other hand coming to comb gently through his hair. “Much better than yesterday. I’ll have to thank Aladdin somehow.”

"… Do it without implying any of this," Ja'far manages with a breathless little laugh, eyelids heavier by the moment as his breathing considers returning to normal. "Treat him to a dinner of his favorites, or something along those lines," he murmurs, shifting to curl onto his side, closer to Sinbad as he lazily buries his face into the man's neck, one hand languidly sliding down his belly. 

“After that, I’ll give him the whole damned kitchen.” Sinbad nuzzles down into Ja’far’s hair, his hand following Ja’far’s down. “Your hands are still hurt, I can take care of it myself.”

Ah, well, there's truth in that. Ja'far tries to recall a time he was more miffed about not being able to do something sexual and comes up empty. His fingers curl loosely at Sinbad's hip, still lingering all the same. "… Then at least let me watch." 

Somehow, that casual request is more overtly shameless and arousing than all the faces Ja’far had made the entire time his cock was in Sinbad’s mouth, and he has to suck in a hard breath as all the blood leaves his face. He nods quickly, once, and parts his robes, scooting back a handsbreadth as he takes himself in hand. Somehow it’s a dozen times more sinful, more sensual when Ja’far is watching, and he groans at the squeeze of his own fingers. How the hell have they not done this before? Ah, probably because he’d thought it too filthy an activity for straight-laced Ja’far.

There's a shiver that runs through him, and no helping the way his face colors at watching something so--well, is there another word for it other than lewd? Never mind the times he's felt Sinbad's cock in his own grasp, the weight of it between his fingers, or how it's felt inside of him; this is almost a dozen times worse (better?) and he feels his teeth in his lower lip before he realizes he's worrying it. 

It's probably the realization that it's his fault that Sinbad is like this, most of all. 

That prompts another shudder and Ja'far licks at his lower lip, realizing he's bitten it until it's bleeding. "What are you thinking about?" God, if he hadn't spent himself so recently, or if his body weren't so tired, he'd be squirming all over again.

If he didn’t hate them down to the very core of his being, everything they stood for, and everything they’d ever done, Sinbad could almost thank Al-Sarmen. He’s never seen Ja’far so uninhibited, not even when he’d been drunk and sucking on Sinbad’s cock--all right, maybe just that once. His breath hitches into a long groan, watching the scrape of Ja’far’s teeth over his lip. “You. All you,” he pants, stroking faster. “The way you look when I’m fucking you hard. The way you squirm around on my fingers. The faces you make when--ahh--when you want me inside.”

That would be right now, without a doubt.

Ja'far shudders, curling his knees up towards his stomach, and god, it's hard not to reach out and grab Sinbad's cock and tell him to put it in him already. No matter how he aches, no matter how his body wants to scream in protest at the very thought--

He has to touch him, at the very least.

It takes him a scarce moment to squirm closer, to catch a golden hoop of an earring within his teeth, all as his own, far weaker hand pushes Sin's away, his thumb dragging over the head of his cock. "Later," is the heavy promise, exhaled on a breath that leaves him shaking, and Ja'far twists around, worming his back flush to Sinbad's chest, reaching down between his thighs to grab for Sinbad's cock and ease it between them. "For now--please--like this--" 

Nothing has ever been so difficult for Sinbad in his life as being gentle is now.

He breathes deeply, eyes fluttering shut at the press of soft, creamy thighs around his cock, squeezing him as tightly as the weak muscles of Ja'far's body can manage.

He's slick enough to slide easily between them, letting out a long, slow groan as he does, hips canting forward and ah, if touching himself in front of Ja'far was lewd, this is simply obscene, and his cock is dripping enough to make it an easy glide forward and back as he curls around Ja'far's back. He nips gently at the younger man's neck, breath coming quick and eager, and murmurs, "It feels just like you're taking me inside. Like when you want it even though it's always too much for you."

He's so hard he hurts.

The quiver that rakes through Ja'far leaves his muscles bunching, his head bowing forward with a trembling breath as he wriggles his way back as if he's riding Sinbad's cock. That image cements in his brain, makes him remember times that Sinbad's hands have been on his hips, picking him up as if he weighs nothing, and setting him down on the same, thick cock now sliding against him. He swallows hard, eyes trailing down to watch--to the sticky, dripping head of Sinbad's cock as it fucks between his thighs, and god, it's all he can do to bite his lip and keep back a whimper.

"… like it when it's too much," he admits on a rasp, and he has to shut his eyes, the eager little shudder that runs through him leaving him entirely out of breath.

"You do, don't you?"

Sinbad's voice is shaky and rough, and his hands dig into Ja'far's hips for just a second before he remembers himself, remembers the reason he has to be good, and goes back to curling an arm around Ja'far's waist instead. It's easy, doing it like this, to be flush against the smaller man's body with every thrust, to nibble on the shell of his ear as he rocks forward. "I'm always too much for you, right?"

His eyes go dark, heavy-lidded as he admits, "When you scream and cry, it just makes me want to take you harder."

Ja'far groans, the sound as eager as it is frustrated as his legs clench, squeezing tighter around Sinbad's cock. He wants Sinbad to grab him, to roughly shove him down and fuck him--thoughts he normally doesn't care for unless the exact mood strikes, and that's a rare, rare thing and they both know it. 

"Wish you would." To be denied when he does want so badly is agony, and Ja'far sucks in a ragged breath, burying his face down into the sheets as he squirms his way back with an unsteady, mindless whine. "Later," he manages to pant out, "later, I want you to hold me down--take me until I'm begging you to stop--" And then I want you to do it again.

Sinbad takes it back.

He hates Al-Sarmen.

To hear such filthy things dripping from Ja'far's lips, to imagine them, to not be able to do them because of how fragile Ja'far is right now--that's as much torture as he can imagine, and it's with a frustrated snarl that he lurches forward, jaw clenching with the effort of being gentle. Ja'far is in the mood now, but they both know it could easily be years before he is again, and oh, Sinbad hates Al-Sarmen. 

"I will," he murmurs, though they both know he won't, not unless Ja'far asks him again, and explicitly. "I'll spread you open and make you scream, Ja'far. I'll kiss the tears on your face, and when you beg me to stop I'll just take you harder."

Even saying it is too much, and he stops himself from biting at the last second, buries his face in Ja'far's shoulder and shudders, spilling over the front of Ja'far's thighs, arm tight across the younger man's waist as he pants, hips moving in needy little jerks.

The shivers and twitches that run through his own muscles are akin to a second orgasm of his own, and Ja'far sags back into Sinbad, weak and boneless and all the more pleasantly exhausted for it. Just the thought of Sinbad doing to him--it makes desire twist low and hot in his belly, leaves his skin flushed hot, and god, he wants. 

"… You have my permission," he finally manages, still breathless, still a little to riled to speak without his voice hitching every other word, "to remind me later."

Sinbad nods, all he's really capable of at the moment after such a powerful release--ah, he'll have to remember to change Ja'far's sheets before he leaves, knowing how finicky the younger man can be. The thought of reminding him, of being able to really do it later when Ja'far is well and rested and wanting it--

He needs to stop, or he'll be hard again in less than a minute.

A breathy kiss to the back of Ja'far's neck follows, and Sinbad lets out a contented little noise, resting his head back on the pillow. "I will." Another kiss, because Ja'far is addicting. "Know that I won't hold it against you, should you change your mind."

Ah, he's never so accommodating as he is with Ja'far. 

"… Maybe you should." He's probably not lucid at this point, what with how heavy his eyelids are. But Sinbad is warm, and he's scarcely felt so content. "String me up with my own wires, see what I do," Ja'far sleepily mumbles.

Ja'far is injured, of course. He's exhausted and weak and in pain and probably hallucinating at this point, and if Sinbad were any sort of a decent man, he wouldn't take that as any sort of permission once they're awake.

Hmm. Time will tell. It's so hard to tell when the urges will come on him. 

"Whatever you say, Ja'far."


	11. Chapter 11

 

Judal is still _here_.

 

Of course he’s still _here_ , Sinbad knows for a fact that the kid has nowhere to go. No life skills, no talents, no connections outside of Sindria. He’s here, maybe because he has no other choice, maybe not. 

 

If only there were a way to _know_. 

 

It’s something he ponders while Ja’far recovers, while Judal rolls around on the bed and sucks on his neck and falls asleep in Sinbad’s arms. It’s something he ponders for days, turning into weeks, until Ja’far is well enough to fire his scribes for a reason unrelated to their perceived incompetence.

 

Sinbad likes to think of himself as a good man, a kind man. Even _he_ knows that that doesn’t mean he is one.

 

“Ja’far?” he calls quietly, leaning on the doorframe just after sunset, casual robes slung over his shoulders, hair loose down his back. “I have a proposition for you.”

 

It's nice, being able to return to work as per usual without the added stress of incompetent drones that don't write fast enough, or correctly, or simply don't get everything done by a precisely set deadline. The value of a pair of entirely working hands can never be understated as far as Ja'far is concerned, nor the wellness and health of a body that hasn't been tortured for a solid twenty four hours. 

 

His recovery takes far too long for his liking, but he supposes that just means he'll have to take more pains to never let it happen again. 

 

"Sin," he greets without skipping a beat, rolling up a last scroll and carefully tying it off. "Just a moment, and I will be all yours… as long as it doesn't involve drinking in spades, we have a meeting in the morning, you know."

 

Sinbad nods slowly, still not a hundred percent certain of his own idea. No, he has to know. Cruel, crueler than anything to give Judal false hope, to promise to restore what he has no power to restore, but ah, the alternative…

 

It’s been weeks since Judal has seen the sun, except through Sinbad’s bedroom window. He gets no exercise except in Sinbad’s bed, talks to no one but Sinbad and occasionally Aladdin, and grows paler and more unhappy by the day. 

 

Sinbad waits patiently for Ja’far to finish his work, then jumps in when there’s a lull, knowing that the paperwork is never _truly_ done, and the most he can hope for is a break. “It’s about Judal.”

 

That, as always, brings Ja'far pause, and a last scroll is tucked away before he rises, smoothing his robes. "What has he done now?" He hopes, almost, for something terrible, so he can rid them of the nuisance once and for all. There's a little twinge that follows that thought, but it goes as quickly as it comes. No matter how Judal aided in saving his life, Ja'far still feels no amount of indebtedness towards him; if anything, it was a fair trade for all the times that Judal tried to _take it._

 

“Nothing.” True, that. “In fact, that’s the problem.”

 

Sinbad feels his nails digging into one palm, an old habit he’d thought himself rid of years ago. Old, old habit, from being surprised to find his hand unfilled by the hilt of a sword. “I want you to test him.” He takes a deep breath. “I know this is asking a lot of you, but if you think you can...go to him. Tell him you’ve been Al-Sarmen all along. Ask him back.”

 

Ja'far blinks, his eyebrows arching slowly. "He'll believe me," is the simple retort. "And he'll bite like a fish starved. Do you really want to see that?" 

 

Sinbad frowns a bit. “I think you’re wrong.” He pulls out a dagger, a long slender thing with a bound black leather handle--a spy’s dagger, an Al-Sarmen dagger, one he’s kept for years. “Give him this. Tell him that if he wants his magic back, he’ll have to kill me.”

 

"… You're underestimating them again," Ja'far slowly says as he reaches out to delicately pluck the dagger from Sinbad's grasp. "And the hold they have upon a person--especially someone like Judal. They've taught him that stupidity--that _ignorance_ is acceptable, and instead he should flock towards the safest, most powerful stronghold in order to survive, rather than rely on his own wit." His head cocks. "To him, that stronghold still isn't you." 

 

He can’t falter now. Not when Judal is wasting to something like a wraith in his room, more miserable every day without an ounce of strength. At this rate, Sinbad doesn’t even know how long he’ll _last_. “Bet you’re wrong. Bet you dinner.”

 

Ja'far's brow furrows. "You really want him to be _yours_ , don't you?" he bluntly retorts. "Fine. Dinner, then. I'm not rushing to your aid when he tries to put this dagger in your back." 

 

“If I can’t defend myself from an untrained assassin with my own dagger when I know he’s coming,” Sinbad says levelly, “I think I rather deserve to get stabbed.” He walks to the window, leaning out over the sill. “I want him to be _his_. It’s tiresome, to be someone’s sole reason for existence.”

 

"This isn't going to make that happen," Ja'far replies with a sigh, tucking the knife into his robes without a second thought. "If anything, it's going to terrify him into clinging to you all the more. Don't misunderstand when I say this, because I have no real pity for him--but a Magi, cut off from the rukh that has blessed him since his birth… well. For him to waste away isn't exactly an unpredictable thing. It might be kinder to kill him, all things considered." 

 

“Then this is his last chance. Make no mistake, if he proves himself to be nothing more than Al-Sarmen’s tool, I will deal with him appropriately.” The hard edge to his voice softens as he moves to Ja’far, running fingers through moonlit hair. “I suspect you faced similar tests in your youth. _You_ resisted them. Are you so sure I didn’t orchestrate those as well?”

 

"… The difference is that I am not an idiot." Ja'far's mouth twists wryly. "And I am capable of reason, as well as governing myself. Then again, I was not their _prize_ \--Judal was undoubtedly subjected to far more than I ever was or would be. Comparing the two of us is moot." 

 

“Then this conversation is moot. It will be what it will be.” A thin smile creases Sinbad’s lips, though there’s little of mirth in it. “And one of us will be buying dinner. Are your hands quite recovered, and the rest of you?”

 

"Your transitions need work, that wasn't even sly," Ja'far deadpans.

 

A turn, and Sinbad takes Ja’far’s face in his hands, leaning down until they’re a bare inch apart. “How can I be sly when I burn for you so much?” It’s a risk, maybe as much of one as trying to threaten Judal into making a choice, but ah, his mind has been capable of little else lately.

 

Ah. Well. If it isn't sly, it's flattering.

 

There's a slow-burning, unresolved churn of desire in the pit of his belly--something that has been there since waking up pathetically weak and injured, no matter how he's tried to suppress it. Sinbad has been patient (and keeping his distance, to preserve that), and Ja'far feels his lips twitch a bit at that, amused at how _accommodating_ the man is with him. 

 

"You like to play dangerously, my king," he murmurs, lifting his chin a bit, but not removing himself from Sinbad's hold entirely. "Al-Sarmen's former Magi, and their assassin, too? What questionable taste."

 

“ _My_ assassin.” Sinbad cups Ja’far’s chin firmly, trails his other hand down to the small of Ja’far’s back, holding him. It’s been torture, keeping his hands politely off Ja’far during his convalescence, not simply taking what he wanted, and he’d _never_ have done so for someone less precious to him--he’d have trusted himself, and probably rued his enthusiasm later.

 

“Or do you need to be reminded who your master is now?”

 

Oh. _That's_ a button being pushed that he wasn't quite aware that he had.

 

There's a little wobble that his knees feel inclined towards, and a hard swallow that follows. Ja'far lifts a hand, fingers scraping at Sinbad's chest, folding their way into fabric as his eyes lid and his breath sharpens with his next exhale. "Perhaps it would be in your best interest." 

 

One of the things Sinbad knows best, after all his years of life, is when someone has been wanting him. He’s seen it on countless women, on Judal, on a few that never thought they had a chance, but _never_ on Ja’far before today.

 

It does a great deal more than it should, and those breathy words only serve to make it worse.

 

Sinbad moves, grabbing Ja’far’s wrists behind his back, watching sharp eyes change color as he tugs skillfully at red wires, twisting and snaring and tying them together. “By the time you leave here,” he promises in a low voice, “ _if_ I let you leave here, you’ll know full well who owns you, body and mind.”

 

It's a miracle that he stays standing, what with a shudder twisting down to his bones, leaving his legs feeling weaker than ever, his chest tight and his stomach twisting in knots even tighter than how his wrists are now bound. There's a reflexive twitch to follow, a squirm of his arms that _tests_ how well he's been tied, and a little pang of anxiety that follows as well. Being tied up with his own weapon--something only recently he can wield properly again--

 

It's an allowance only Sinbad is privy to, and Ja'far trembles harder at the thought. In a way, there's _relief_ that sweeps over him because it's Sinbad, only Sinbad, and his breath hitches, tongue flicking out to wet his lower lip as he glances up, eyes too-bright and face flushed with every slow heave of his chest. 

 

“You’re nervous.” The words linger on Sinbad’s tongue, and he savors them, eyes dark as he runs his hands up Ja’far’s arms, curling around his neck before sliding down to grip his waist. “You know I could do anything to you.”

 

He strips Ja’far faster, more efficiently than he should be able to strip someone bound with wire, but he hasn’t gotten to be king without acquiring a few skills. Ah, he takes his time, openly enjoying the sight now that the bruises have faded, being not at all shy at the way his eyes rake over the large expanse of pale, pale freckled skin he uncovers. “Don’t worry. I _will_ do anything to you. Maybe everything.”

 

"Sin--" The man's name catches in his throat, on a breathy whimper no less, and Ja'far feels his skin color all the more. A heavy breath, and he tips his head forward, eyes shutting as he shudders. Already, he's so hard that he _hurts_. He blames it all on his own suggestions, the fact he asked for this in the first place, down to the wires binding his wrists and leaving him to clench his fingers at his back. He blames it on his own carelessness, for being too injured to do this _weeks_ ago, and instead left it to fester in the back of his mind, to the point that he even bothered with one of his own, shaky hands late at night, imagining as close to this very scenario as he could. 

 

It's a relief with that, too, that he knows Sinbad so well that his idea of it is almost identical to reality. 

 

"Please." It's a rasp--and barely at that. 

 

Sinbad’s lips curl, eyes flashing at the single word. “Good,” he murmurs. “Starting to beg this soon.” He picks Ja’far up as if he weighs nothing--not hard to do, especially for someone with Sinbad’s build--and sets him on the bed on his back, head just lolling off the side. “Do you want to taste me, Ja’far?”

 

Ah, he shouldn’t have spent so many nights imagining this, taking Judal so roughly that the younger man had cried out and dug his nails in hard, imagining Ja’far’s pale, flushed face instead. He eases his cock out of his robes, but leaves them on for the time being. He is, after all, the master here, and it does well to keep Ja’far in his _place_.

 

Reflex makes him want to squirm onto the bed properly, and he probably _could_ , if not for feeling Sinbad's gaze upon him, knowing he's been set exactly where Sin wants him, and Ja'far feels himself swallow hard again. "I…" Never mind that he's no _good_ at this sort of thing--he _wants_ to, to the point that his own cock twitches against his belly and his lips part, breath fast and thready. "Y-yes." God, he can't even _think_.

 

“Good.” Not that he’d let Ja’far go if he denied it. It’s as likely that it would be an act at this point, and Sinbad can see Ja’far squirming, hungry, licking his lips in anticipation and oh, that’s a nice sight. 

 

Sinbad leans forward, rubbing the head of his cock over Ja’far’s lips, pressing it in against his tongue for just a moment before doing something he’s never done to Ja’far before and sliding in far, taking advantage of the angle to drive straight down the younger man’s throat, letting out a long hiss at the sudden heated slide. “Ahhh--”

 

The sharp, ragged breath that he inhales through his nose isn't quite enough, and Ja'far feels the instinct to struggle, to fight all for a moment as he chokes, swallowing rapidly to keep from gagging too hard. It _is_ easier like this, and he knows, _knows_ he's never had this much of Sinbad's cock sliding down his throat before, never had his mouth this full, so full that his jaw aches. 

 

He's never felt so _helpless_ , bound and with his head thrown over the side of the bed, Sin's cock stuffed down his throat and arousal making him tremble so hard that he can barely think. 

 

It makes him hungry, no matter how he sinks into the mattress with a muffled groan, a messy, desperate swallow and suck on that thick cock making him gag. Ja'far's eyes roll back and his Adam's apple bobs with each hard swallow, doing his best just to simply _take him._

 

Ja’far likes it, Sinbad can tell.

 

And that’s good, because it feels so good to be shoved down Ja’far’s throat that Sinbad isn’t sure he’d be able to _stop_. 

 

He tries to take it slow at first, sliding out far enough to rub the leaking tip over Ja’far’s tongue, reveling in the act of making him _taste_ , before shoving himself in again, eyes fluttering shut at the pleasure of that pale throat constricting around him as Ja’far tries to breathe. He reaches out a finger, running it delicately up the underside of Ja’far’s cock, relishing every little squirm he elicits from the younger man and ah, it’s too much, and he starts to thrust hard, driving in fast over and over, lost in his own pleasure.

 

Sinbad is just _using_ him, and that shouldn't rile his blood as much as it does. It shouldn't make his cock throb, shouldn't make his hips buck at the slightest touch of Sinbad's hands, shouldn't make his legs splay wide and his toes curl as he chokes on Sinbad's cock. He can't _breathe_ , not when Sin shoves in so deep, all the way until _all of him_ is buried inside, and Ja'far's chest heaves raggedly, a sob stopped short no matter how tears prick to his eyes, hot and overwhelmed. 

 

After awhile, he surrenders entirely, melting into the bed, trembling with each thrust of Sinbad's cock--his mouth another hole for the man to use and right then, Ja'far _likes_ it that way. 

 

Sinbad has come too far to balk at _anything_ now.

 

He has Ja’far here, splayed out uselessly on the bed, capable of nothing but taking his cock and _loving_ it if the twitches of his own are any indication, the sweet tight wet heat of his mouth and throat an irresistable, heady drag on Sinbad’s cock, and he shudders with every thrust. 

 

He’s come too far to not take _everything_ he wants, regardless of how much Ja’far would normally hate it.

 

At the last second, he pulls out, an almighty groan as he spills thick and hot over Ja’far’s face and tongue and hair, painting his lips, chest heaving at the _sight_ more than anything else as he steps back, heart pounding as he stares at his handiwork. “You,” he rasps, eyes dark and intent as a predator, “have never looked better.”

 

Ja'far's breath hiccups, deep, long draughts of it filling his lungs again as his tongue thoughtlessly flicks out, dragging over his own lips, tasting and shuddering after the fact. He can _feel_ the slick, hot drip of Sinbad over his face, the way his seed clings to his hair and even his eyelashes, and god, he's never felt so thoroughly marked, so thoroughly _claimed_. 

 

Those thoughts alone are nearly too much, and he whimpers, biting into his lower lip as he twists where he lies, his head falling back down with a helpless shiver. "… So long as my king is pleased," is the whisper that he just barely manages.

 

A low, hungry chuckle wells in Sinbad’s chest, and the smile on his lips is almost feral. Too far, he’s come too far not to take _everything_ he wants. “Your king is pleased.” 

 

He flips Ja’far over, dumping him onto his belly and yanking up his hips, pressing Ja’far’s face down into the bed. “But he’s not _nearly_ satisfied.”

 

A slick finger trails over the cleft of Ja’far’s ass, rubbing teasing, pushing slightly in and pulling back to circle the hole again, over and over as Sinbad’s breath hitches. It’s too much fun to tease Ja’far--and until he’s recovered, it’s exactly what he intends to do. “Start begging any time you want.”

 

Ja'far _wants_ to tell him that that's just not fair--that this is really the most undignified position and embarrassing and could he please _stop_ \--but god would he be a liar to say that he didn't like it, no matter how his face flames when it's pressed into the sheets. His teeth bite down, stifling a high, breathless sound, and his hands clench at his lower back, twisting within their bindings. "Please." It's a soft, hitching plea at first. "Before--when I told you that I wanted you to hold me down and take me--I…" His face is so hot that it hurts, his cock throbbing with every breath. "… wanted it just like t-this, so _please_ \--"

 

One slick finger slides in, then out again to trail up and down the cleft, easy, slow, barely giving Ja’far anything to clench down on with every motion. Over and over, a long tease, and Sinbad can’t help but lean down to nibble on one of those soft thighs. “Tell me what you want. No pretty words, tell me you want my cock fucking you, that you’re the kind of man who _likes_ that kind of thing.”

 

Usually he likes to keep his whores and his friends separate. Not today. 

 

Today he just wants to make Ja’far scream.

 

His skin twitches, quivering beneath Sinbad's mouth, and Ja'far groans, struggling to set his knees further apart, as if that'll somehow _help_. Maybe if he looks like more of a whore, that'll be convincing--that'll get Sin to at least slide his fingers inside. "I--" He swallows, biting, nibbling desperately on his lip. "I w-want… your cock fucking me." His shoulders bunch, and oh, he can feel his blush creeping down his neck. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about it… s-since that night… when you were between my thighs and I…" he trails off, breathless and shaky.

 

In all honesty, Sinbad’s been ready for a while now. Those words shoot straight to his cock, pooling low and hot in his abdomen, and he slides a finger in and leaves it, twisting, little thrusts mimicking how hard he’s going to slide in. “Is this enough?” he asks, and bites down on the juncture of ass and thigh, leaving marks he’ll want to see for ages. “You’re so small, so tight, maybe this is all you can handle. Maybe I should make you come just like this.”

 

God, he probably _could._

 

Ja'far's breath catches hard in his throat, and he worms his way back, eyes squeezing shut as his body clenches tighter still, even just that one finger making his cock jump and leak onto the bedspread. "No," he chokes out all the same. "Not enough. Sin, I want _you_ \--" _Too big, too much, enough to make me ache for days afterwards--_

 

Sinbad is done.

 

He’d planned, thinking and planning and fantasizing about this, to actually make Ja’far come like this, to tease him about how tight and how repressed and how secretly whorish he was that he could come on just a finger inside him, but he’d _drastically_ overestimated his own ability to keep cool in the face of such a thing.

 

He pulls his finger out. Slowly, trying to remember to breathe, that he’s an adult and should be able to _breathe_ , he kneels behind Ja’far, rubbing the slick, dripping head of his cock over that pretty hole, fisting a hand in red wires and tugging no matter how much strain Ja’far’s shoulders must be feeling. “I bet you feel empty. You need it in you, don’t you, Ja’far? Use my name. Beg me.”

 

Ja'far wants to cry. Maybe he already is, judging by how wet his face feels--but that could just as easily be a slick sheen of sweat, or more obscene still, the sticky mess that Sinbad has already left behind, left there without even being wiped off in the slightest before he's shoved down like a whore. 

 

"S… Sin--" He _hurts._ His cock hurts, his body hurts, back arched so sharply and shoulders tense and arms trembling. He hurts _inside_ , aching and trembling from how he isn't filled yet, no matter how he's already _pleaded_. "Need you," he helplessly whispers, head sagging forward as his voice catches on another, hiccuping groan. "Fuck me, _please_ , Sinbad--"

 

Sinbad isn’t at all gentle when he slams in, and never before, not in over a decade, has he taken Ja’far so _roughly_. It’s a brutal shoving, grabbing thing, yanking Ja’far back by the hips, less than a second from the time the head presses against that tight little hole to the time he’s in so far that soft hairs are pressed against Ja’far’s ass, feeling him twitch and spasm.

 

It takes a minute before he has a voice, and he grunts like an animal, like a wild, untamed thing claiming a prize, a meal, a _mate_. He bites into Ja’far’s shoulder, slamming in deep again, knowing he’s got to be in too far to feel good, loving every twitch and noise he gets. “That--better?” he growls, eyes hardly able to focus.

 

He can't _breathe_. 

 

Can't breathe, can't think, can't make a sound, no matter how his mouth falls helplessly open, no matter how he gulps for air. Ja'far's vision blurs, his body twitching, spasming with every hard, relentless shove of Sinbad's cock inside of him--in deeper than he _should be_ , than Ja'far can ever really remember, no matter how he _knows_ that Sinbad has been inside all of the way before. It's different this time, unhinged and no attempts to ease him into it, and god, he just feels so big that Ja'far thinks his legs will give out by how far he's spread open, stuffed full, left to simply _ache_ and _squirm_.

 

Too much. All of it, too much--

 

Any other time, and he might be embarrassed coming when he does, with Sinbad's cock inside him only for a sparse few moments, barely having fucked him yet. Not now, though. Now, Ja'far sobs with relief as he spills, tighter, more tense _still_ as every muscle quivers and shivers.

 

Sinbad can feel how Ja’far _loves_ it. The spasms of him--tight, too tight, he’s always too tight but today it’s nearly to the point of _pain_ around his cock--almost send Sinbad over the edge, but he bites his lip, holding still as deeply as he can bury himself inside Ja’far, fingers digging bruises into pale hips as he trembles.

 

Ja’far’s body is far too lewd, from the arch of his back--not accustomed to arching--to the flush of his cheeks--not accustomed to flushing--to the tears from his eyes--not accustomed to crying--to the things that are always too much, the freckles and the delicately arched feet and the curve of each soft thigh that had felt like heaven wrapped around his cock--

 

“Now,” Sinbad says, husky and low as he bends over Ja’far’s back, “I’ll take what I want from your body.”

 

Ja'far thinks he nods, uselessly, mindlessly, and that maybe that a sob escapes as he shifts back, trembling with as overstimulated as he is. Sinbad's cock is _still_ too much, spreading him too wide, filling him too deeply, and oh, god, he can still taste him on his tongue, too, can smell him everywhere, heady and masculine and he _wants_ Sinbad to take everything he wants, to use him until there's nothing left. 

 

"Please," is the faltering whisper, a desperate nudge of his hips back making him bite his lip, eyes squeezing tightly shut. "Use me, I'm yours."

 

It’s a damned good thing Sinbad had already released once (the memory of spilling over Ja’far’s flushed face enough to make his cock twitch and jump). Otherwise, he’d be lost at that, at the begging little admission, the surrender in Ja’far’s voice as he begs for more even as he’s stuffed full and spread wide. 

 

As it is, he eases his cock out, until just the head is left stretching Ja’far open, and slides slow and long back inside, wanting him to _feel_ every inch until it’s far too much. “Maybe I’ll take you like this all night.”

 

That shouldn't make Ja'far shudder like it does, nor should his cock jump at the thought, no matter how recently he's spent himself. Sinbad is just _tormenting_ him now, and he gasps and swallows at that tense slide inside, inch by inch, feeling all of it that much more acutely now that it's slower. "Do it," he groans, burying his face into the sheets, his hands fisting at his lower back. "J-just-- _harder_ \--"

 

Sinbad has been waiting for this.

 

“Was that an order?”

 

Ja'far's pulse jumps. "A request," he whispers--doesn't _whimper_ , no, not quite yet.

 

Sinbad lurches, covering Ja’far in one move, fisting a hand in his hair and yanking back hard. “You,” he growls, driving his hips in so deep he hears a _slap_ , “are _mine_. Mine to command, mine to keep, mine to _use_.”

 

Harder now, the weight of his body pinning Ja’far to the bed, biting into his neck. “Mine to rut against like a dog. Mine to _fuck_ , Ja’far.”

 

The arch of his back _hurts_ , as do Sinbad's teeth, the shove of his body, the shove of his _cock_ , so deeply inside of him that Ja'far feels like he's choking, unable to breathe all over again. Even still--everything is a slick, trembling sort of hurt, aching over his bones and making him whimper, making him _shriek_ before he can stop himself. He feels marked and used and _claimed_ all over again, from his king's seed on his face to the cock in his ass, the hands in his hair, on his arms, the teeth on his neck--

 

He really is a dog, little better than a whore or a slave, and he thinks he could come again, just _thinking_ about that as he nods mindlessly in agreement, voice put to better use with squeaks and whines.

 

Sinbad’s hands wander, gripping, squeezing, pinching Ja’far all over. His fingers drag down Ja’far’s neck, pinch and tug at his nipples, squeeze into his thighs, and brush just barely, just enough to be felt, against the very tip of his cock.

 

“What would you do now,” he breathes, hot and eager into Ja’far’s ear, “if I released your wires?”

 

A shift of his knees, and Sinbad changes the angle of his thrust, savagely hard over something he knows Ja’far can hardly stand.

 

" _Doon't_ \--" It's a far more wanton beg than he wishes it, but god help him if he can stop himself now. Ja'far's vision blurs and he feels tears squeeze from his eyes, leaving him quickly unsure what he's begging for more--Sinbad to _stop_ hitting him so perfectly because it hurts, it's too much, he can't _take it_ , or for him not to untie him because he likes that too much, too, no matter how his arms ache and throb. "D-don't, don't, it's good like this, I--"

 

“I won’t.”

 

Sinbad laughs, a harsh bark, and he nips at Ja’far’s ear. Usually he’s kind enough to change, to vary his thrusts, to only hit Ja’far so perfectly one thrust out of every six or seven, but not today. 

 

Today he wants to see those tears.

 

“I won’t release you. But if I did...would you try to escape?” He leans in closer, driving in hard, wanting to see those lips part, those eyes squeeze shut. “Would you touch yourself?”

 

Ja'far's head shakes, and he's not sure if it's an answer or merely a thoughtless, desperate motion. "Don't want to," he pants out, and he wants to _cringe_ at how his voice sounds, high and breathy and _breaking_ when Sinbad hits him just right, _too_ right, his thighs quivering with every thrust and his body sagging. "T-too much… already… I just want to feel _you_ \--" 

 

With that, the last of Sinbad’s control snaps. A feral, wild noise comes from his mouth, and he moves fast, dragging Ja’far back until he’s bent over the edge of the bed, shoved down hard and held there by two broad hands on his back. Sinbad gives himself permission to let go, to really let go, and his eyes cloud over, the added leverage from being able to properly plant his feet letting him drive into Ja’far over and over, faster, harder, even deeper, until all he can feel is good and all he can taste is Ja’far’s skin as he bites the younger man’s neck.

 

He's going to pass out.

 

Maybe he already has, what with how hazy his vision is--but no, he can feel too much still, feel every slap of Sinbad's hips against him, every sticky-slick slide of his cock, every ache that agonizing stretch causes. Ja'far can feel the grind of his own cock into the bed now, the friction something he's _grateful_ for no matter how that adds another edge of overstimulation that he's not sure he can _handle_ , especially when he's left stretched on tiptoe, tense and bent and twisted and--

 

 _Come inside me, please, please, please_. He's not sure he says it, or babbles it, or if he even manages anything beyond squeaks and whines and mewls, but he wants it all the same.

 

Ja’far sounds like a wounded animal now, and the predator in Sinbad loves it. He grabs at Ja’far, grinds his head down into the bed, spreads his legs as wide as they can go, manhandles him like he’s no more than a doll to be played with, jerked back on Sinbad’s cock and stuffed full.

 

The noise he makes when he comes is inhuman, something wild and fearless and conquering, and in that moment, Sinbad wouldn’t have been surprised to see his hands break out into feathers. His fingers grip Ja’far’s waist, holding him down, as still as he can until he’s finished, and collapses, pitching forward as a broken, mindless thing.

 

His own release is secondary, a weak, trembling shudder that leaves his toes curling, his teeth biting into the sheets. It's all Ja'far can _manage_ right then, his eyelids heavy and his nerves singing all in different keys as he sinks beneath Sinbad's weight. 

 

"… Heavy," is the eventual whisper after some moments pass--little more than a whisper, with how hoarse his voice is. His fingers give a weak twitch in kind, and truth be told, if he didn't know what damage could be done by being left strung up like this, he'd want to _stay_ that way, just a little bit longer.

 

The word means something. Ja’far has made a sound, and eventually, it translates into a word. Heavy. Sinbad knows that word.

 

Slowly, he rolls to the side. No, that’s not enough, they’re still half on the bed. With a groan, he gets up, untying those damn wires and hauling them both onto the bed to fall in a heap. “Better?” he asks, half-asleep already.

 

Ja'far thinks he nods, knows he rolls to the side to flop uselessly atop Sinbad's chest, a sprawl of long limbs that for once aren't quite coordinated. _Everything_ hurts. He really likes it that way. 

 


	12. Chapter 12

Judal can't help but watch Ja'far, sometimes.

It's some sort of masochism, when it comes down to it. Judal knows he's stupid, especially compared to Ja'far; he knows he's useless at this point, save for occasionally teaching Aladdin a bit of magic that he masters in a day or two. If he were a Magi--Sinbad's Magi--he'd have some use again. That's what he was born to do, after all. He was born to help conquer countries, claim them and govern them.

Ah, but that's not quite right. Ja'far helps govern. Al-Sarmen would have never put him to such a task--not beneath Kouen's reign, nor Sinbad's. He's a weapon, and little more, either way. 

He resigns himself to thinking less on that, and more upon what makes Ja'far so special to Sinbad instead.

Judal is fairly certain he's prettier, though maybe it's a matter of taste. There's an elegance in the way the man moves that Judal isn't quite sure he has, no matter how he's told he's like a cat on more than one occasion. Maybe that was when he could actually float. And there isn't any contest when it comes to intelligence, which annoys Judal time and time again, never mind the little slide of resignation that quickly follows that, too. 

Small wonder, then, that Sinbad calls Ja'far's name when he's fucking him one night (and seems to not realize it, though Judal certainly does, and remembers it, moodily and unhappily). 

"Judal. I need to speak to you." 

He has to wonder if Ja'far has seen him watching on more than one occasion, and ugh, this is gonna get awkward. He lets Ja'far lead him aside nonetheless, self-consciously straightening his robes before Ja'far can pick at them again.

That never quite happens.

"I have a proposition for you." 

It's surprising how sharp a face that is so sweet, so normally doe-eyed can suddenly be, and Judal tries not to think about how he's probably in a room with a pit viper. 

It's the least of his worries, when all is said and done. 

~

He doesn't sleep in Sinbad's bed that night.

"I have a proposition for you."

His own room--or borrowed room, whatever, however Sinbad wants to spin it, it isn't really is--is colder than Sinbad's, chilled by the wind off of the ocean, and Judal shivers, shoving his face down into his pillow. 

"Al-Sarmen would welcome you back with open arms, should you do this one thing." 

He could tell, he could always tell that Ja'far was Al-Sarmen. It's the way he kills, the glint in his eye, the way he blends and becomes invisible at the drop of a hat, the way Judal can't smell him unless he's been rolling in with Sinbad for a day and a half.

"Kill Sinbad, and you will be our treasured Magi once more."

"There's no way--"

"Do you doubt us?" Slender eyebrows arch high. "I went through quite a bit of trouble to deliver this message to you, you know. The least you could do is be grateful that we want you back after all." 

"… When you left, and were nearly killed--"

"An elaborate ruse." 

Judal feels sick, and the press of the dagger beneath his pillow isn't helping.

~

"Has he shared your bed at all this week?" 

Confining Sinbad to a desk is a task, but a little more manageable for the past week, at least. Now, at the end of the day, when Sinbad has been fairly cooperative and constructive, Ja'far sees fit to reward him--positive reinforcement, of course, is always the way to go, and it happens to be in the form of a wine goblet set in front of him. "I'm beginning to think," Ja'far drawls as he leans over the man's shoulder to carefully fill Sinbad's cup, "that you will owe me dinner."

Sinbad’s shoulders are tense. They ache, and he shouldn’t be tense, this shouldn’t be a risk, but that doesn’t help him to banish the anxiety. Not for himself, no; he’s handled worse than an upset, untrained teenager with a knife before. 

No, what worries him is that Ja’far is right, and Judal will prove to be nothing more than a tool of Al-Sarmen, and Sinbad will have to Deal With Him.

There’s a goblet of wine, which is the least Ja’far can provide along with the smirks. And it’s good wine at least, which takes some of the edge off. “You think so? He hasn’t tried to kill me yet this week. Sleeping in his own bedroom is hardly the same as sticking a knife in my back.”

"It's because he is thinking about it." Stating the obvious, but sometimes, it's needed courtesy of Sinbad's tendency towards denial. Ja'far does feel sorry for Sinbad, somewhat; his penchant for trying to fix things and take care of them has never served him so poorly as it has with Judal. 

The jug of wine is set down, and Ja'far's hands simply set themselves upon Sinbad's shoulders instead. "I daresay he's made it out of that room this week." His head tilts, and his fingers knead in firmly. "Should I set a deadline?" 

Sinbad lets out a hiss of a sigh, head tilting forward as the pen lolls from his hand. Ja’far’s hands are talented and quick, making short work of the knots, and Sinbad’s eyes flutter shut. “Mmm. You’d better. And--” 

Is it too much? Too cruel? 

Or is it the only true way to tell for certain?

“Can you or Yamuraiha conjure an illusion of the rukh?”

A short, surprised laugh escapes before Ja'far can stop it. "And you say I am cold-blooded. Even if you're right, he's still going to be traumatized by the end of this." 

“Is it too much?” Long ago, Sinbad would have believed his own decisions to be right, and not felt the need to ask. He takes a long swig of the wine, draining the goblet, and isn’t shy about tilting it for more. “I want to force a decision. I don’t want there to be nothing left of him at the end. If the rukh is too cruel, just tell him you’ll kill him yourself if he doesn’t kill me.”

"That won't motivate him; he's past the point of caring if he dies or not, I think," Ja'far dismisses, his hands lifting from Sinbad's shoulders to obediently pour him more wine. "The rukh will certainly make him… desperate. And by that I mean possibly hysterical, but I will certainly speak to Yamuraiha about it."

Sinbad doesn’t slow his consumption, drinking the wine down just as fast as the last glass. He’s been doing far too much thinking this week in any case; it’s for the best if he doesn’t do too much more tonight. “Use your best judgment. Gauge his reaction to the deadline, if you need the rukh, use it. Ah, I think I need to visit the city tonight.”

"It's probably best if you aren't here tonight, anyway," Ja'far agrees, never mind the little roll of his eyes. "Perhaps take Sharrkan with you, you could use a like companion." 

Sinbad nods, a bit distracted but agreeing nonetheless, giving Ja’far an absentminded kiss on the cheek when he stands. “You can go ahead and tell him I’ll be back by sunrise. Give him--ah, give him until tomorrow’s midnight. That should be enough time.” 

He leaves, the door hanging open as he heads out to Sharrkan’s likely location, and after a few seconds, the much smaller figure of Aladdin fills the doorway. “Do you even know what the rukh looks like?” he asks, eyes wide and giving nothing away.

Ja'far's reflex, before it quite clicks that it's Aladdin, is for his proverbial rattles to start shaking with the rear of his head and glare shot in the doorway's direction--ah, and then he realizes, and it's with a long exhale that he relaxes, fingers briefly pressed to the bridge of his nose. "Eavesdropping isn't polite, you know," he gently chides, and continues the task of clearing Sinbad's desk for the next day. "I've seen it before, around you. You've gathered so much sometimes that it can't help but be seen." 

“I picked it up in school,” Aladdin volunteers, hopping up and sitting on the cleared edge of Sinbad’s desk. “The teachers always talked about the most important things when they thought no one was listening. I learned more that way than in class. So do you know what the rukh looks like to a Magi? Judal does.”

"… Aladdin, you do realize what you're doing right now." Regardless of what scheming he does with Sinbad, there's little Ja'far wants Aladdin involved with. "If you tell me anything, I will use it, and to better manipulate Judal." Whom you seem to have taken a liking to, for some reason.

“If you do it wrong,” Aladdin points out, “Judal will think you’re a liar, and he’ll go to Sinbad and say you’re a liar from Al-Sarmen, and he’ll find out that Sinbad asked you to hurt him. Is that better?”

He tucks up his knees, eyes troubled, and tugs on Ja’far’s sleeve. “I want to know, too. If he can get better.”

It might be better. Maybe then he'll put himself out of his misery. "… You know that I don't think he can, either way," Ja'far quietly says, and he sets a hand atop Aladdin's head with a little sigh. "If this doesn't work, you have to know that it isn't your fault. You have been far kinder to him that was necessary to begin with." 

“He doesn’t like me very much.” Aladdin butts his head against Ja’far’s hand, taking comfort from that familiar touch, glad that Ja’far is well enough to give it. “Making friends is really hard. I don’t know if it’s because I’m a Magi or if he just...doesn’t like me. I try really hard to be his friend!” He’d thought it was working, when they’d practiced kissing, but the next day Judal had gone back to shoving him away, literally.

"It has nothing to do with you," Ja'far reassures him, giving Aladdin's head another little rub. "Judal… isn't well. You've known that for awhile, haven't you? He wasn't well before he came here, and he certainly isn't much better off now, no matter how you and Sinbad have tried." 

Something about being around Ja’far is so reassuring. It always makes Aladdin feel better when he’s sad, or sick, or just lonely. Kind of like the girls do, but he doesn’t want to kiss Ja’far. There’s probably a word for it, from people who grew up with real families. “Do you think I should give him his magic back?”

"… No," is the weary response. "I don't. I think he would go back to Al-Sarmen, and we would be right back to where we were before. Someone that has been with them for so long, and with that much black rukh… I don't think there's anything that can be done." 

Aladdin nods slowly. It’s the decision he’d come to, and why he hadn’t really tried, after all. “What if he tells you no? If he sees the rukh and still doesn’t try to kill Sinbad?” He probably shouldn’t be looking so hard for a reason to save Judal, but it’s hard not to. He just always looks so sad.

"Then maybe I'm wrong." Ja'far's hand slides away. "What do you think?" The fact you're asking me makes me know you have doubts of your own, perhaps more.

Aladdin tucks up his knees, resting his chin on them as his bare toes grip the side of the desk. Slowly, he says, “I think...he hasn’t done anything mean since he came here. He doesn’t catch little animals and hurt them, he doesn’t set stuff on fire. Even when he wants me to go away, he just says I’m annoying, or that he wants to be alone, he doesn’t say really mean things. He hasn’t tried to tell Sinbad to get rid of you even though he knows you don’t like him. It’s not hard to be a bad person, you know? People manage it without magic all the time.” He frowns, thinking. “I don’t think he’s a very fast thinker, so maybe it takes him a while. And I think Sinbad’s plan is going to hurt him pretty bad. But...I don’t think there’s nothing there worth saving.”

Only Aladdin is capable of making him feel a twinge of almost pity. Almost.

"If he doesn't try and kill Sin," Ja'far begins, eyes lidding, "are you going to give him his magic back?" 

Aladdin’s grin has a hint of secrecy in it that probably only Ja’far would be able to see. “Who says I can do something like that?”

It's difficult to stop one eyebrow from ticking upward. "It would be very troublesome if you could do that, you know."

“Well,” Aladdin admits, rocking back and forth a little on the desk, “I’ve never really tried.” He worries at his lip, frowning. “I sort of wish I could give him back just...the rukh can’t find him. And he can’t feel it. It’s...it has to be like living in a glass bubble and not being able to feel air or water or the sun. That would make anyone crazy. Maybe if you’ve never felt it you’d be okay, but to grow up like that?” It troubles him, and he looks down. “The rukh loved him the most of all.”

It's hard to believe that, what with how little the rukh seemed to do to ever protect him. Ja'far doesn't say that, though, biting the inside of his cheek briefly before shaking his head, giving Aladdin's braid a fond little tug. "Don't stress over it. You've already done more than most would, you know. What happens at this point happens."

Aladdin nods, heaving a sigh. “You’re probably right. I told all my friends at school about how smart you are.” He closes his eyes, extending one hand palm-up, and calls a rukh into visibility. Even the sight of it brings a smile to his face, the wonder and magic of it filling, lifting his spirit. “This is what it looks like,” he says softly, as if afraid to disturb it.

"I see." There's an urge to reach out and touch it, though Ja'far resists, just barely. He offers the boy a faint smile. "I can't imagine what it would be like to never see it again, if it has been with you forever." And if anyone tries to take it from you, I will kill them with my bare hands.

Aladdin lets it go, watching it flutter back into the fabric of existence, and feels the swell of love from it like he feels sunlight on his face. He looks up, meeting Ja’far’s dark eyes. “I’ll be sad if he tries to kill Sinbad. But I won’t stop whatever has to happen. I’ve...seen people that hurt each other for power. They don’t stop. Not unless someone stops them.”

Ja'far heaves a long sigh. "I don't think Judal knows any better," he simply says, "but that doesn't excuse it. If anything, it makes him that much more dangerous. But you know that--I just don't want you hurt in the midst of all of this."

Aladdin jumps off the desk, stretching out his back and arms. “Don’t worry, I’m just here to watch. In fact…”

He slips out the door, waving a farewell as his braid trails behind. “I was never even here!”

~~

How long had it been?

Judal tries to do the math, but his mind races too fast, his pulse thuds too hard, and it's all he can do to leave at Ja'far's dismissal, to not beg him to let him see it more, to let him touch it. 

It's not even black anymore--it's white, fluttery, perfectly white, with maybe a tinge of grey but that makes sense, and he wants it so badly that he can't breathe.

He was wrong, really wrong, really stupid to think that Ja'far was lying. That snake lies, with a straight face and right through his teeth all the time, but not about this. His eyes are too cold, too hard for him to be lying when he hands Judal a deadline, tells him if it doesn't happen, this is his last chance, and Judal shouldn't have questioned him, because now it's even harder to resist when the rukh is dangled in front of his nose only for it to be taken away again.

His knees wobble, and he's glad he's at his destination, because he feels too weak to keep walking. Maybe that's him wanting food, too, but mostly, it's that dizzying, aching want of the rukh in his grasp again, all of that power at his disposal, no matter what color it is.

Judal's head thuds against Aladdin's door as his back hits it, some semblance of a knock as he sinks down against it and slowly to the ground. Has he been nice enough to the kid to ask him something like this? Has he taught him enough things, tolerated him for enough moments out of the day? Probably not, Judal thinks miserably, and his knees slowly fold up to his chest as he tries to remember how to breathe normally. 

Easier said than done.

The door opens, and the sound of a breath being sucked in comes from over Judal’s head. “Judal? What are you doing in the hallway?”

Oh no, he’s going to ask me for advice and I can’t lie, I always say I’m going to but I always tell the truth! It was going to be okay when I was just watching, but this is too close, and it’ll be my fault if it all goes wrong! I should just...just leave him here, or…

But Judal looks so miserable.

“Come in. I have some fresh cherries.”

"… Hate Sindrian cherries." He wants to just lie on the floor when the door isn't supporting him anymore, and he nearly does. Judal's throat is tight, jaw clenching as he partially turns, making no attempt to rise. "Hey. Do you hate me?" His chest is tight, too. "I can't remember if I asked you before." You should, just tell me you do, and I'll give up and get that stupid dagger and--

Honestly, Judal doesn't know.

“No!” Aladdin answers immediately, far too fast to be a lie. “I hate a lot of things you did a while ago, but I don’t hate you. I think you hate me sometimes, though.”

He frowns at his room, at what’s left in the fruit bowl especially. “I have a cantaloupe. Do you like those in Sindria?” he asks, offering a hand to help Judal up.

Why couldn't Aladdin just say yes?

"They're okay. I'm… not really hungry, though." Judal's stomach churns at the very thought as he lifts a shaky hand to hesitantly take Aladdin's and haul himself up. "I don't…" I hate this, I hate this, I hate this-- "I don't hate you, either. But I… think you should hate me. Aladdin--" Teeth sinking into his lower lip, he spares a glance over his shoulder before sliding into the room, and sags into the door again as soon as it's shut. There's no good way to bring this up, no way to segue that he can think of, and god, he knows he's awful at being anything but blunt, anyway. "Freck--…Ja'far--did you know that he's from Al-Sarmen?"

Aladdin hates lying, he hates it, even when it makes his life easier he’s just no good at it, it feels wrong--

But this isn’t about whether it’ll make his life easy or hard. It’s about what Judal will do, and if he’s really worth saving.

Aladdin’s passed judgment on people before. He’s taken away people’s livelihood, chosen one side over another in a war, saved someone at the cost of someone else. It’s part of being a Magi--maybe it is being a Magi. That doesn’t mean he hates it any less. 

Don’t say anything more than you have to. Sphintus and Titus had tried to teach him how to be a better liar. They were both great at it, though Titus was a lot better. “Did he say something to you?” Tell me he did, tell me you can’t do it, I want to help you.

Judal's head slowly tips forward, and for a moment, he thinks he might pass out in just remembering what Ja'far said--or more accurately, what Ja'far showed him. His chest hurts. Everything hurts, but that most of all, like someone is reaching in it and twisting and--"He… he said that Al-Sarmen would give me my magic back, if I returned to them." Telling someone makes it a bit easier. 

When he sees the look in Judal’s face, how drawn and worn and heartbroken he looks, Aladdin regrets showing Ja’far what the rukh looks like. He tugs Judal over to sit on the bed, sitting next to him without letting go of his hand. If anything, he gives it a squeeze. I know, he tries to say with that touch. I get it, better than anyone else ever could, because I know what you lost. “Do you believe him?”

All Judal can manage is a nod. "I didn't want to. I almost didn't. But then I asked for proof a-and--for a moment I could see it again, I thought it was a trick but it felt so real and--" His breath hiccups, and that's it, that's the end of it, when all he can do is replay the sight of it over and over and over again in his mind. 

Judal grabs at Aladdin's hand like someone starved, his eyes wild, wet as he lurches closer. "Please please please you have to be able to do something, I couldn't, I t-tried every time they asked me to when they tested it but you still have white rukh and it's probably different and I need it back and I don't want to kill Sinbad and I don't want to go back but I have to, I have to, there's nothing here for me anyway because Sinbad doesn't really want me, he wants that snake and if he knew, that would just hurt him too much so maybe it's better if I kill him--"

Ah, this is a bad idea, a bad bad idea, but Judal is drowning, he’s a man on the edge of sanity and reason, and Aladdin’s eyes are wide and concerned. “I--look, just calm down, we can talk about it, I--do you want to see it? I know I can make you see it at least, if it’ll help you calm down so we can talk about it?”

"I don't want to just see it!" Judal's voice cracks, his hands clawing into Aladdin's arm as he shudders. "I need it, I'm worthless without it, don't you get that?! I'm not like you!"

“You’re not worthless!” Aladdin ignores the little pinpricks of pain in his arms--they’re nothing, nothing compared to the pain and loss in Judal’s face, pain and loss that Aladdin is complicit in, if he refuses to help. “It--Judal, it’s not something that makes you a--it’s not just a power to use! That’s why your rukh turned black in the first place, and if I give it back you’ll just do the same thing!”

"Then let it!" His vision blurs, wet and foggy, and he thinks the next heave of his chest is a sob. "You don't get it! Everyone wants you, everyone loves you! I don't care how long you were without that, you have it now, and I never will! E-even Sinbad--no matter what he s-says, I'm still just… just something for him to use, because of where I used to be. It's all he'll ever ask--about Al-Sarmen, about the Kou Empire--" Judal's lower lip trembles. "K-Kouen wouldn't even look at me when I tried to go to him first. Not him, not his brothers, not even Kougyoku. No one wants me unless I have the rukh, so I--"

“Do you want it bad enough to kill Sinbad?”

That’s what this cruel joke was designed to test, isn’t it? As much as Aladdin hates it, hates being a part of it, hates the way it’s ripping Judal apart, he can’t deny that it’s effective--and he does want to know, probably more than Ja’far and Sinbad do. “Do you even care about anyone? Or do you just want them to love you and say how great you are because you’re a Magi and they want to be powerful?”

"If I wanted to kill him, I would have done it already!"

God, he can't breathe. Every inhale is a little too fast, and Judal sinks back, shaking all over and drawing a knee up to his chest. "But it doesn't matter because he doesn't want me, h-he just feels sorry for me, like every other person he collects. I'm still a little useful but not for long, I only know so much, and when that's up there's nothing left if I don't have the rukh back, so he won't…" He swallows hard. "I'm not like Ja'far, I'm not using him, I just want him--why isn't that enough?"

“Why would he want a worthless person?”

Aladdin looks at Judal, eyes wide and unblinking. “You said yourself you’re worthless. You said you’re nothing without the rukh. Why would Sinbad want someone like that?”

"I--"

Judal sniffs, lifting his head to look at him, incredulous. "Are you mocking me? Fuck you, that's the point, isn't it? He's never gonna want me so… so it doesn't even matter."

“So you’ll kill him and get your magic back and go back to Al-Sarmen and keep hurting people.” It hurts, to find out that he was wrong, that Sinbad was wrong, and that Ja’far was right. He loves Ja’far, but wants him to be wrong. “But I don’t think you’re worthless. And I don’t think Sinbad spends three months ignoring his own country to spend all day every day with someone worthless, so...I guess you must not be.”

"I don't want to, though."

His voice shakes again, and Judal's gaze flickers upward again, still desperate, still hungry. "I don't want to kill him. I really, really don't, I--" He's mine, I want him to look at me like he does Ja'far, but he doesn't, it's not the same. "I want to stay here. With him. I don't want to be worthless, I--I want to help him, but I need my magic back to do it--so please--you can do something, can't you?" 

Aladdin takes a deep breath. He’s not even sure if Ja’far would approve of what he’s about to say, but that’s the least of his worries. “I...maybe. But you wouldn’t like what I could do.”

At that, Judal just laughs, high and strained. "Do you think I like this any better?"

Aladdin stares down at Judal, easing up into a kneeling position. He pulls off his turban, and the Wisdom of Solomon glows on his brow. “I think,” he says carefully, trying to tell as much of the truth as he can, “I could use this, and I think I could strip away enough of you to get to the core. But...I don’t know for sure what would be left.”

Aladdin's right. Judal really doesn't like that.

"… So I'm really that horrible that you'd have to do that to give me my magic back?" Ah, should he be surprised? He shivers again, not wanting to remember the last time Aladdin used that on him. "There's a lot of things… that I don't remember. I don't want to," he quietly admits.

Aladdin bites his lip, trying to think of the best way to put this next part. “I--I don’t know what a mother is any more than you do,” he says plainly. “But I’ve heard my friends talk about them, and that’s what the rukh is to me. It loves me, and it wants me to be happy, and--I think…” He frowns, struggling with the words. They’re not his favorite thing; it’s so much easier, most of the time, to just show someone what he means. “I think the rukh wants you to be the kind of person that wants to remember all the bad things you ever did. The Wisdom of Solomon doesn’t usually make things easy for people.”

"I'm…"

Afraid.

Judal swallows hard, his eyes casting downward again. "What if… after all that, it still won't come back?" I'll die, I'll just die.

Aladdin scoots forward, reaching out to pluck at the shoulder of Judal’s robe. “Then I’ll still be your friend,” he offers, hoping it doesn’t sound like such a hollow, unworthy offer as it probably does.

A high, nervous laugh escapes at that. "Great," he manages hoarsely. "But that's not good enough. Sorry."

Aladdin shrugs. “I didn’t think it would be, I just wanted to let you know.” Ah well, at least now Judal has his answers--and some of them are even true. 

And now, for a lie. Sinbad and Ja’far are playing dirty with that illusion of the rukh, probably dirtier than they know, so he can do a little lying of his own to even the score. “You know, it might be something like what I can do, what Al-Sarmen can do. I don’t think they’d care how much they hurt you,” he adds honestly.

"… You don't know that, though." Judal shivers as he sinks back with a shake of his head. "They… don't like it when I remember certain things, at least. They'd even change things around sometimes."

Aladdin shudders, his head thudding against Judal’s shoulder. “I think if someone did that to me, I’d die instead of going back. Or...I’d just run away.”

"I didn't want to remember, so it was okay. I think I wanted to run away, once, but…" I don't even remember that. Judal hesitates for all of a second before he lurches forward, his own face burying its way into Aladdin's shoulder. "I used to not remember what I didn't want to remember… but stuff comes back in little bursts now, the longer I'm away. I really… really don't want to remember all of it."

Ja’far, I wish you could see this.

Then again, Aladdin doesn’t. It’s a hard thing, to be this vulnerable, something he’s only starting to understand as he gets older. For someone that’s used to having as much power as Judal, it’s got to be unbearable. So he just wraps his arms around Judal’s shoulders, trying to be as much support as he can. “Maybe they took away some good things, too. Maybe you could get them back.”

"They didn't." That tightness in his chest is back, and Judal's head slowly shakes side to side, even though he doesn't bother lifting it. "It all ends badly, eventually."

“But it doesn’t have to.” Aladdin kind of wishes Judal’s hair were out of its braid, so he could run his fingers soothingly through it. Instead, he runs his hands up and down Judal’s back. “You can make your own ending. You don’t have to do what people tell you to do all the time.”

"It's easy for you to say that, because no one's told you what to do a day in your life, have they?"

Aladdin beams, though he doesn’t stop petting Judal or pull back. “They try sometimes. No one’s very good at it. I don’t really listen unless I want to.”

"I can't do that." It's a simple, weary retort. God, he's tired. Judal shuts his eyes, sagging forward just a bit more. "Any time I tried before…" Actually, I don't really remember that either. 

Aladdin does pull back now, just far enough to look into Judal’s face without letting go of him. “You do know that no one is gonna make this choice for you, right? You can stay like this, or let me try, or go back to them, but it’s up to you.”

"No. Make it for me."

Judal wants to laugh at how pathetic he is, but he's too tired to bother. "You know what you want me to do, don't you? Do… do you want me to have my magic back?"

Aladdin cocks his head, even as something sinks down low in his stomach, some bright hope that maybe Judal would be able to get through this turned to lead. “You don’t even like me, but you want me to pick your whole life and death?”

"You're better than Ja'far. Better than Sinbad, because I don't… understand what he wants from me, really." Judal shivers, eyes dark as he meets Aladdin's gaze. "You don't think I should I have it back, do you? You think I should stay like this."

Aladdin sighs, and leans forward, wrapping his arms around Judal’s neck. “I think that if the only choices are you hurting everyone with magic all the time and you not being able to hurt people, yeah, you should stay like this. You know what it feels like now, when people hurt you because you don’t have any power, but I’m still not sure you wouldn’t keep doing it.”

There's a weak urge to form a rebuttal, but that fades when the thought that Aladdin, no matter how he was never trained as a Magi, is way better at this than he ever was, and ever would be. Maybe I'm the fourth one. That would make sense, wouldn't it?

"… Okay." It's small, quiet, and resigned, and Judal's face drops back down into the crook of Aladdin's neck. He hurts. He's tired. he can't even shake anymore, he just wants to lie here. "I… but… you have to tell Sinbad about Ja'far for me. He… I doubt he'd believe me." 

Slowly, Aladdin’s magic starts to spin out, winding gently around Judal, soothing him to sleepiness. It’s an easy enough magic, something Sphintus taught him last year, an easy thing that only works when the person truly needs sleep. He strokes up and down Judal’s back, feeling the weakness, the despair, and his heart aches. “You can sleep here tonight, if you want. I don’t kick.”

Judal manages a nod, face butting against Aladdin's shoulder as he shuts his eyes. Those hurt, too, and his face is wet and sore and he probably looks as bad as he feels. 

It doesn't matter right now, though. Sleep, real sleep, for the first time in days, is a welcomed thing.


	13. Chapter 13

They have no right.

When it comes down to it, they have no right, and so he’ll do something about it.

Aladdin has knelt by Judal’s side as he sleeps for hours, trying to think of solutions. Not his problem, not anything of his making; but if he’s a Magi, a real one, then everything is his problem. That’s the deal, he thinks. That’s part of the world. He gets to touch the rukh, but he has to touch everything else, too. 

And Al-Sarmen have no right to take the rukh away from anyone.

And Sinbad and Ja’far have no right to promise what they have no ability to deliver.

He’s not entirely sure if he has the right to make this decision for Judal, but Judal had asked him to, unable to decide for himself. Maybe it’s better this way; Al-Sarmen had left him a broken shell of a person and Sinbad’s coddling had done little to give him any kind of a backbone.

Really, no one else should mess with Magi things.

Which means that Magi have to mess with them. 

He never knows what the Wisdom of Solomon is really going to do. Sometimes it does what he expects, but sometimes it seems to make its own choices, deciding what’s right with an iron fist and a will of steel. Aladdin dives into Judal’s soul, forehead blazing, and the Wisdom of Solomon makes a choice.

Aladdin slumps over on Judal’s sleeping body, knowing that they’ll both be sweating and shaking and sore in the morning. Judal, at least, will find something in him he hadn’t had yesterday, and that’s enough knowledge to send Aladdin into a pleased dreamless sleep.

When he wakes up, there better be food.

It's hours and hours before Judal wakes, and even then, when his eyes finally do crack open, he's not sure he wants them to. 

He expects to be greeted by agony all over again, by that unpleasant tightness in his chest and cold chill that sinks down to his bones that only seems to disappear when he's buried against Sinbad's side, or to a lesser extent, Aladdin's mere presence when he's been roped into teaching the kid something. It isn't there, though, and he rolls onto his back, blinking slowly, sleepily up at the ceiling as he tries to figure out what's different.

… Or why he's in Aladdin's room, for that matter. Did they fuck again? Awkward, if he doesn't remember it. 

There's a little flutter out of the corner of his eye, and Judal blinks again, wondering if he's still asleep. He must be, if he hears the little chittering, fluttery flap of too-familiar wings, and he shuts his eyes, wishing he'd wake up already to stop being tortured. 

It doesn't stop.

He shoves himself upright, staring at the sudden flutter of rukh that follows the movement--pitch black, trailing murky, sickly depravity in the air, but it's rukh, the rukh he knows, he can see it, and his fingers tremble as he reaches out to touch it. 

It doesn't just let him; it welcomes him, twists about his fingers and he just wants to cry. 

Aladdin blinks himself slowly into wakefulness, roused by something more profound than the shifting of someone beside him--the rukh is moving, buzzing, happy. 

He blinks up at Judal, sees him touching the rukh, sees it dancing around and through him, and he smiles. “Oh. It worked.”

"You…" Judal swallows, knowing his face is wet, streaked with hot tears. There's an urge to grab handfuls of it, to curl up on top of it and not let it flutter away, as if that would somehow work. "You did this? I thought…" I thought you didn't think I should have it back. At least, that's what he dimly remembers--sort of--vaguely. 

“Mmm,” Aladdin agrees, yawning. He sets his head on Judal’s leg, looking up at the play of the rukh around the two of them, and ahh, that hadn’t been a dream, Judal really is using the white rukh. “Wasn’t sure if it was right, but...I had to. Sorry I didn’t get your permission.”

It's hard to think of something to say, of how to really react when it feels like centuries without (even if it's only been close to 8 months). Judal shivers, shaking his head, relief sliding over his expression as he realizes he feels warm for the first time in all of those months, not alone or terrified or--

"You didn't need my permission. I--" It isn't even anything like he imagined. If Aladdin used the Wisdom of Solomon--which he must have, what other way is there?--then it's not anything like it was the last time, when he was left rent open and aching to the core. This is just relief, with the odd lightness of white rukh twisting about his fingers, and the black just sliding behind, occasionally tinting it all to grey. 

That's fine, that's fine. It's all rukh, what's it matter, and he's drowned in black for most of his life, anyway. 

"… Thank you." Judal isn't quite sure he's ever meant it as sincerely as he does now.

Aladdin rubs his face against Judal’s thigh as he gets comfortable, a little smile coming to his lips. “The rukh missed you too,” he says simply, as if it wasn’t all his choice. Maybe it wasn’t, really. 

He reaches out, twining his fingers around Judal’s, watching the rukh dance between them, diving into them, a flurry of white and comfort and all the feelings that come with being truly at peace. It warns him too, that the less he says about the things that have passed, the better.

Ah, well, that’s not really lying, is it?

Very softly, he says, “Welcome back.”

Judal manages a nod, and with that, flops backward, shutting his eyes with an ecstatic tremor of breath. "Al-Sarmen said no one could give it back." He grabs for Aladdin to haul him up, to bury his face into his shoulder, too giddy to be less than a purring, affectionate cat. "Sinbad's going to be so happy, I can really be his Magi now--"

Aladdin can’t help but laugh, beaming at the way Judal is so happy, at the way he seems so healed. They hadn’t understood, any of them. They’d thought that Judal had to learn to be a person without the rukh, but that doesn’t make sense.

No one can live without the rukh.

“Hey, Judal! We should go flying! And then eating!”

Flying. When was the last time he hadn't had to touch the ground like a normal person? "Yeah, both of those," Judal breathes. "Maybe eating first, though. I'm starving--and I really want to tell Sinbad, and see his reaction." 

Aladdin bounces out of bed, landing lightly on the floor and holding out his hand. “You don’t want to go to Sinbad and accidentally eat him,” he says practically, “and I’ve gotten pretty close with Alibaba when I was really hungry. Let’s go to the kitchens!”

"Alibaba's fat, though, so there's actually something to eat there; Sinbad would be stringy," Judal automatically points out as he reaches out to take Aladdin's hand. There's a moment where reflex kicks in, no matter eight months without, and he wants to step on air rather than the palace floor. It should work, theoretically, with the rukh as a cushion beneath his feet, and the languid willing of gravity magic to do the work--

It doesn't, though, and he tries not to let his brows knit too openly in confusion. Ah, well. Maybe he's hungrier than he thought, or it's just been awhile, so he's that out of practice… 

It’s a giddy, exciting thing, having someone with him who actually understands. His friends are wonderful, and Aladdin would take them over anyone in the world, but they’ve never really understood the world in the same way he was born understanding it, the same way Judal was. 

It’s somewhat similar to a swarm of locusts, the way they descend on the kitchens, and at least by now the cooks know how to shove food at them and get out of their way. Maybe...it wouldn’t be so bad if he got really, really fat today, Aladdin thinks greedily. “We can go flying after,” he says through several mouthfuls. “Before you see Sinbad. He do’n like it when I’m really fat.”

"He'd make you run," Judal agrees, plopping himself down with a content sigh as he sinks his teeth into the nearest peach. When he gets to handpick them, it's far better. He's started to suspect that Ja'far steals all the good ones and gives them to Aladdin or whoever else wants them so he can't have them. "Ah, he was mean to me the other day. He said I have handles--I don't, definitely not now." If he did, having rukh again certainly burned that off over night. Small wonder he's literally so hungry he thinks he'll faint. 

Aladdin grins, juice running down his face to drip on his protruding belly. “He made me run a long way one time but it didn’t do anything. Flying helps a lot more.”

He gulps it down, then adds, “Your braid is a really good handle anyway. You don’t need any more.”

"Pervert," is the uncaring response. "Ah, maybe I can do my hair like I used to again. It's too hard without magic, there's just so much of it…" 

Aladdin’s face falls a little, and he asks, “Does that mean I don’t get to play with your hair anymore?”

Judal frowns, and somewhere in the midst of it all, a pheasant disappears. "You can still play with it," he slowly allows. "It's a lot of work either way, and I think I'm out of practice. The rukh's doing weird things. Maybe I just don't know how white rukh works?" 

Aladdin nods, thinking. He doesn’t remember too much about what the Wisdom of Solomon had done, but there was definitely something in there about white and black rukh. “Maybe you just need to learn how to do it again,” he offers, and yeah, that sounds right. He fumbles on the table, and damn, he’s sure there were a few pheasants there. His stomach rumbles, and he grabs a roast goose instead. “My teachers in Magnoshutt made me do a lot of exercise before I could do magic right.”

"That's annoying. I was plenty strong before." Judal huffs, grabbing for the nearest bowl of dates before Aladdin can get to it. "Maybe it'll all come back to me. I don't wanna have to relearn it all again, that's a lot, and it's not like I don't remember all the magic spells and how to do them. I knew all that stuff by the time I was five, it should be easy."

Aladdin refrains from pointing out that he’d known plenty of stuff too, and just beams, reaching under a table for where he knows the cooks hide the really good chocolates to keep them safe from him. “You knew a lot really young!”

"Yeah, well, that's all I did all day." Ah, he's getting full finally, and Judal languidly pops a date into his mouth. "Bet I can still raise dungeons, at least," he sighs. "That's sorta like instinct. It's why I was so surprised when you hadn't ever done it." 

Aladdin steals a date from Judal’s bowl, looking not at all guilty. “I don’t know, sometimes I look at the ground and I kind of want to. But...you know I wasn’t really in the world for most of my life, and then at school I had most of my magoi locked away for a couple years. But I hear the djinns calling in my sleep sometimes.”

"Answer them at some point, they like it. Ah… though your candidate is useless, and can't have another djinn." He can't resist that jab, nope. "I've raised a lot of them, especially for Sinbad."

“Sinbad can’t raise any more dungeons either,” Aladdin points out. “You don’t seem to think that makes him useless.”

"Because he already has seven. Yours only has one," Judal matter-of-factly retorts.

“I dunno, depending on what Amon gave birth to it might be two.”

"Can we not talk about creepy pregnancy things?" 

Aladdin burps, wobbling off his stool and onto the ground. “Yeah...I think now might be a good time to fly or something. That was a lot even for me.”

"Okay, okay. Geez, can you even walk?" Judal grumbles, even as he sort of rolls out of his own stool. Ugggh, nope, Sinbad is not allowed to see him yet.

“Ummm...you could roll me if you want,” Aladdin suggests, squishing his way to the door. Ah. Doors. A bit difficult.

It’s a bit of work to get through it, and it happens by grabbing his belly and pulling parts of it through at a time, until he wobbles out with a sigh of relief. “Wow, I got a little carried away. I should raise a dungeon somewhere close so one of Sinbad’s friends can conquer it to pay for all that food.”

"He'd probably appreciate that… might wanna ask first, though, to find out where the best place would be, so no one else tries," Judal points out, contemplating giving Aladdin a little push with his foot to actually watch him roll like a ball. "Kings and stuff get weird about dungeons."

It kind of hurts Aladdin’s knees to walk like this, so he doesn’t bother, calling on the rukh to give him a boost--ah, yes, much nicer. “Just have to make sure it’s someone who likes Sinbad enough to give him all that money but not a member of his household,” he reasons. “Kind of difficult, since he sort of collects people.”

"Eight generals, more like a harem," Judal grumbles. Never mind that Sinbad is only fucking one of them--uh, he thinks. Maybe he's wrong about that. Idly, he tries again to have his feet off the ground. It might as well be like he isn't asking it to do anything, from how the rukh mindlessly swirls. It hears him, though. He knows it does. So why won't it just… work? Judal bites down on a sigh of frustration. "It's still being dumb," he mutters.

Aladdin watches the rukh dance away from Judal’s instructions, almost as if it’s taunting him. That’s not very nice, he thinks with a little frown. “You can’t order it like black rukh. You have to ask nicely.”

"I asked it nicely!" What does it fucking want, rainbows and sparkles? Judal grits his teeth, and the next attempt is less a command, more of a request--which still yields little to nothing, though it seems to like that a bit more. Stupid, fickle, useless--why couldn't he just use black rukh, he knows how to make that work, so why won't it come to him? 

“Stop getting mad at it.” It’s not really going to happen, but after all, Judal doesn’t know that… “Do you want it to go away again?”

The way his pulse skyrockets is enough to make him burn at least 4000 of those calories. "No. I… it won't do that, will it? I'm not mad at you, just frustrated," he mutters underneath his breath to the rukh, tweaking one little fluttering wing with his fingers. 

Aladdin rolls against him, butting his head against Judal’s shoulder. “It loves you. You’re just…” He frowns, trying to think of how to put it. “It’s like you’re not quite speaking the same language anymore. It hears your tone of voice, like a dog hears a new master and can tell if it’s upset or happy, but it doesn’t know the words.” He shrugs, a little helpless. He hadn’t known this would happen, after all. “At least, that’s what it looks like to me.”

"Oh." Actually, that's pretty terrifying. Judal feels the surge of happiness from before start to sink into his belly and twist. "… I don't know how to fix that." 

Aladdin closes his eyes, and the rukh swirls around both of them, lifting them from the ground and carrying them out a near window to hover in the air. “It’s learning,” he whispers, eyes still shut. “It has to learn your language, and you have to learn how to make your tone clear. Be patient. White rukh doesn’t take orders the same way as black rukh.”

That's dumb. And stressful. Mostly really, really stressful, to think that even with the rukh returned to him, he's still virtually powerless. Judal shivers a little at the thought, shoving it aside and deciding that he won't tell Sinbad that little detail just yet. "… At least it's back." It's easier, far easier to be optimistic when he can feel it again, when he doesn't feel like he's trapped in a glass box and even if he's not the one willing the rukh to let him fly right now, that's nice, too. "I can still see the black rukh, too, but it doesn't respond at all." 

Well, that is good news. Something tells Aladdin that the Wisdom of Solomon has something to do with that, but he doesn’t need to think about that right now. It’s nice to just fly, whipping his turban underneath them and letting it take them high towards the sun. “Maybe you’re not the kind of person the black rukh is drawn to anymore. It doesn’t come to me either.”

"But it lets me touch it and everything," Judal protests, shoving his braid back over his shoulder to whip behind him before it can wrap around into his face. "And whenever it's close, the white rukh gets all… grey-ish. I wish it would listen, then I could at least have that much in the meantime." 

“Judal...you know that using black rukh changes you.” Aladdin blinks up at him, stilling the carpet for a moment. “If you want to use the black rukh, it’s easy and fast, but that’s Al-Sarmen stuff. It’ll make you one of them again.”

"… I know that." A sigh escapes him and he flops backwards, hitting the carpet with a thump. "I just really, really hate being useless. Why won't the white rukh just listen to me? I know how magic works, it's the only thing I do know really well." 

Aladdin rolls onto his stomach, propping his head up onto his hands. “Okay, so tell me how to do something. Teach me a spell.”

"Like what?" Ah, it feels a little too nice to be out in the sun again. Judal gives a yank on the fastenings of his robes, loosening them enough to let them slink down his shoulders. "I've taught you stuff before, it's not like you don't know I'm not good at it." 

“I know, but maybe it’s different now.” Aladdin shrugs. “I’ve got a lot to learn still, so it can’t hurt. I know! Teach me the spell you use to do your hair!”

"Oh, I made that one up." Judal rolls onto his side, propping his chin in one hand. "It's wind magic, mostly, so it'd be easier for you than water stuff. Just, y'know, really delicate wind magic, none of that tornado mess. It's meant to separate all the strands and stuff and untangle it. Asfal Ge, that's the name of the spell… I guess if you want to try it, you can undo my hair or something, but if you really mess it up I'll shove you off this carpet."

“That sounds like a fair trade,” Aladdin agrees cheerfully. After all, he can still fly, and it means he gets to get his hands in Judal’s hair again. 

Happily, he sets about unweaving the long braid, humming to himself as he does. “What’s the thing you want to do first, when you figure out your magic again?”

"… I dunno." Judal rolls entirely onto his belly, plopping his chin down onto folded arms. "I haven't really thought about it. Whatever Sinbad needs me to do, I think. I wanna be able to be useful to him, and prove that I'd be able to help him as his Magi. I tried so many times to get him to accept being my candidate before… do you think he will now?" 

Judal’s hair is so thick, yet so silky, and every time Aladdin gets the chance to play with it he marvels at the consistency. “I think he loves you and he hates Al-Sarmen, so as long as you want to stay with him he’ll definitely say yes.” A slight hint of annoyance twinges through him, and he grumbles, “And at least he won’t give away a kingdom. Twice.”

That word, though. Judal feels his face go hot, and he buries it down into his arms a bit more. "Y-yeah, well, Fattybloba is an idiot. I could've told you that, though."

“You did,” Aladdin points out. “A few times. I still chose him.” Halfway up, and now he can feel the dampness from the last bath Judal took, no matter how long ago it was, courtesy of the fact that this is probably Judal’s first time in the sun in weeks. “I kinda wish I could find him, though.”

"Make a spell for it or something," Judal sighs, lidding his eyes. Aladdin is actually pretty good when it comes to playing with his hair, magic involved or not. "He's your candidate, you should be able to track him down somehow… theoretically."

“Huh. That sounds good. How do you make up spells, anyway?” Aladdin asks. “Seems like the kind of thing a Magi should be able to do, but you talk like there’s all these old words I have to say, and that’s how to make magic happen. What happens if there isn’t a spell?”

"Ah, well, the stuff I've taught you is either stuff straight out of old, traditional magic books, or just modifications of them… the spell for my hair, example, is just a modification of a wind spell that's used to nullify electric attacks. It's just downsized." Judal grins, trying not to be amused at how he's used the real spell on Ja'far before, with satisfying results. "You can name them whatever you want, but this way is easier, so you know the classification of them and stuff. And making them… you order the rukh to do something once, tell it the name of that action, and that's it. You might have to repeat it a few times for it to get it, though, if it's really complicated--or if you're trying something really specific, like tracking down a person." 

Aladdin nods, going over the explanation in his head a few times, and vaguely wishes he had notepaper to write some of this down. It all seems to make sense when Judal says it--that is, it all seems to make sense to Judal. It sort of makes sense to Aladdin, but he doubts anyone else in the world would be able to make heads or tails of it. 

The last strands of Judal’s hair come free, and Aladdin spreads them out, grateful that it isn’t a windy day and the carpet is holding still. “Asfal Ge.”

It's odd, after so many months, to feel his own magic being used by another, all to neatly wind and gather his hair into place. "Hey, good, you didn't mess it up." Judal spares a glance over his shoulder. "It doesn't even need ties, really, because the magic'll hold it in place, but I usually stick one at the bottom, at least. The only times I put ties after each bunch of it are when I have… had something important to do." Like start wars, or something.

Aladdin beams at the praise, taking the tie from the end and securing it. “Even though you do a lot of rolling around in bed?” he asks, in that innocent way of someone who’s never quite gotten the hang of appropriate conversation.

"… The spell's made with that in mind." Judal flops his head back down with a sigh. "You know, it's kinda bad to bring stuff like that up all of a sudden." 

“It is? Why?” Aladdin flops back down onto his stomach, propping his head up on his elbows. “You don’t think sex is bad, but you think talking about it is?” Then again, that’s something he’s noticed in a lot of people, strange as it is to him.

"Nah, not that. It's just… bringing it up in public is kind of weird? Or out of the blue." He reaches over to give Aladdin's forehead a light flick. "Or about how often someone does it, it's just obnoxious. It can be kind of insulting. I don't really care, but you'll get your ass kicked by someone that does one day."

“Oh, I know! We can have some kind of a code, like I did with Sphintus in school,” Aladdin suggests, taking the flick as an invitation to curl up against Judal’s side. “If he thought I was talking about weird stuff and it was important, he’d tell me my braid was coming undone, and I’d pretend to check it and then change the subject. He didn’t care most of the time, just when I met his parents. Or when I started talking about boobs in front of the teachers.”

"… Or I could just watch you figure it out on your own," Judal drawls, frowning for a second when Aladdin curls up next to him before giving up and throwing a leg over his hip, stretching out rather like a sprawled cat. "Go on, ask Ja'far about his sex life, watch what happens."

Aladdin makes a pleased little noise, burying his face in Judal’s side. “Don’t need to ask. It’s obvious from the way he smells. Or sometimes…” He laughs a little. “You guys have the same bruises on your necks. But he tries to cover them up.”

Judal contemplates biting him. "You're kinda creepy in how you see things like that." 

“You don’t?”

"… Well, when I look for it. Normally, I don't really care who is doing who, though." Unless it involves Sinbad and only then if it involves Ja'far.

Aladdin shrugs. “I get curious. And Mor told me one time that Ja’far smelled like Sinbad so I started looking. But I think most people do, you know? Well, most girls. And Ja’far and you.” He frowns, looking up at Judal. “Am I missing out?”

"… Do you ever not think about sex or tits?" An honest question, really. 

Aladdin furrows his brow, considering. “Sometimes I think about magic. And about Alibaba and Mor. And my friends from school. And school. And my teachers. Oh, but most of the time I’m thinking about my teachers I’m thinking about my teacher’s boobs.”

"So I'm getting 'maybe, sometimes' out of this." Judal snorts, rolling his eyes. "Well, whatever. Small wonder you and Sinbad get along decently enough."

“Pretty much!” Aladdin agrees. “Why, how often do you think about it? And, you know, what else is there to think about?”

"Nowadays? Not that much." Which is kind of pleasant, all things considered. It's only if Sinbad is involved and--well, that one time with Aladdin but that was… different. "And there's other stuff to think about… I dunno, I'm a bad person to ask, because of the stuff that's happened lately."

“Mm.” Aladdin stretches out, reaching up to play with the hair that doesn’t go into Judal’s braid. “Hey...do you think Sinbad and Ja’far and everyone will still want me around after you make Sinbad your king for real?”

"That's a dumb question." It's difficult not to purr like a cat, especially when Aladdin's fingers brush near his scalp. "I told you before, they really love you. I mean, it's not like you're a Magi for the taking right now either, anyway."

“Well…” Aladdin can’t help a guilty little twitch, even if he hasn’t lied, and even if he had he sort of doubts that Judal is the kind of person who would really take him to task for it. “I didn’t exactly tell them that I already chose Alibaba. I don’t want them to think I don’t think Sinbad is good enough or something.”

"… Yeah, well, they kinda already know." Judal tilts his head back sheepishly. "I told Sinbad awhile ago… um, and I think Ja'far knew anyway, he's too smart."

Aladdin blinks. “Oh. Well, then that’s good! They haven’t asked me to leave or anything.” He scratches behind Judal’s ears with short, blunt fingernails. “Thanks, Judal!”

Judal thinks of a response, but it kind of fizzles out with the urge to purr/gurgle/whatever when Aladdin's nails scrape over his scalp. Ugh, that's not fair. "Y-yeah. Welcome. Told you they liked you anyway." 

“You know, I chose Alibaba before I knew he was a prince,” Aladdin says absently, moving to scratch the other side of Judal’s head. It’s like having a cat, a big, lazy, sleepy, playful, moody--

Yeah, exactly like a cat.

"Wanted Sinbad before I knew he was… Sinbad," Judal mumbles, his head flopping down to the carpet with a sigh. "Right after he conquered one of my dungeons. Ah, but Al-Sarmen didn't like that."

“Really? I forgot you guys knew each other for a while, right?” Aladdin tries to remember what he’d heard about Sinbad’s life, and only remembers bits and pieces, mostly stuff that Ja’far swore wasn’t real from those books.

"Yeah… I was 14 when I really met him for the first time. He'd conquered a bunch of my dungeons, though. That was before I just raised them when the Kou empire wanted me to…" Judal sniffs. "He thought I was a girl."

Aladdin refrains from pointing out that coming from Sinbad, that’s a compliment. “Well, you’re really pretty like a girl,” he says, then adds just in case Judal takes that the wrong way, “but I don’t think you look like one. And you don’t have a fat ass or boobs. Usually.”

"Usually? I'm gonna shove you off the carpet, I've never been that fat… for more than five minutes."

“I do too when I eat too much!” Aladdin protests. “Sometimes I grab my own chest when I am, just for fun!”

Judal cracks his eyes open to stare at him again. "Okay, no, see, that's weird."

“Is it?” Aladdin sighs, flopping his head down on Judal’s chest. “Sometimes I can’t do anything right.”

"Guys just normally don't like having boobs, you know," Judal grumbles, and he flops an arm over Aladdin's back. "But whatever, if you wanna grab your own chest, go for it."

“Like grabbing someone else’s better. Even yours, even if it’s flat right now.” For someone so prickly, Judal is surprisingly nice to curl up with, especially today. Maybe it’s the way the rukh seem to like it when they’re together, little flurries dancing around them in midair.

"Don't grab it, just lie on it." God, it feels good to sunbathe though. His eyes flutter shut again and he wraps a hand up slowly into Aladdin's braid. "Let's take a nap here, then I can go back and talk to Sinbad."

Aladdin can’t really think of anyone else he’d rather take a nap with on his flying carpet, so he snuggles down, eyes closing as the food burns in his belly and Judal breathes easy under him, a little white flutter alighting on his hand. Thank you.

~~

It's getting late.

Ja'far can't help but watch the position of the sun and how it slowly creeps down, nor can he help but be worried. It isn't for Sinbad's safety, but more realizing that Aladdin isn't anywhere to be found (and hasn't been for hours) and neither is Judal, and considering the deadline he's given is slowly ticking closer… 

If he's anxious, though, Sinbad is at least twenty times worse. Ja'far is fairly certain he's been staring at that same scroll for at least two hours now, and Ja'far bites his tongue, stopping himself from scolding him too badly. It's something he'll allow today--or at least, until this is all resolved, one way or another. 

"Hey, Sinbad!"

Ja'far nearly drops the wine jug in his grasp when the very, very sudden appearance of one ex-Magi comes through the window and immediately latches onto the king in question from behind, face burying its way into his neck. Ja'far feels the hair raise up on the back of his neck, his grip shift to better snap a blade into his hand--even though mostly, he's left staring as Judal purrs as docilely as any kitten, his arms draped over Sinbad's shoulders from behind. 

"We overslept, or I would've been by sooner--guess what, guess what?" 

Only two things--being used to having Ja’far around to defend his weak side, and being used to the kids in the city commonly using him as the basis for a dogpile--keep Sinbad from fully equipping a djinn before Judal finishes talking. His heart pounds, hand already reaching to his sword, but neither of Judal’s hands have a blade, so he relaxes.

Besides, Judal is the worst liar he’s ever met. 

Sinbad draws in a shaky breath, unable to quite help the way his mouth turns up at the corners at the sheer infectious happiness in Judal’s tone. “What is it, who overslept, what?”

"Aladdin and I did," Judal says impatiently, as if it's supposed to be the most obvious thing in the world. He stretches up on tiptoe to better lean over Sinbad, and the long tumble of his hair drops itself over the king's shoulder. "He gave me my magic back!" 

The wine jug nearly hits the floor again.

Well.

It’s hardly anything like the confrontation he thought he’d have with Judal today. He’d been expecting tears or rage or a knife in his back or all three, but…

It pains him to think it, but he’d honestly never expected to see Judal smile again.

Fuck the experiment, to hell with the painstaking ideas he’d come up with, Sinbad no longer cares about forcing Judal to make hard choices. Hell, even if he wants to run away and become Kouen’s Magi, he’s Judal again, swelling with vibrance and energy that Sinbad hadn’t even known he’d been missing so much. 

Heedless of location and appropriateness, Sinbad turns, grabbing Judal for a fast, hard kiss, his eyes lighting up. “He did? How? I thought he couldn’t!”

"Me, too," Judal happily sighs as he simply clings to Sinbad's neck, wobbling on his toes for a minute--ah, it's still not listening, stupid white rukh, let me float up to kiss him better--before sinking back with a little shrug. "But I woke up and it was back, he did it while I was sleeping. So then we ate and went flying and now I'm here and it's really good, I don't ever want that to happen again--"

Ja'far briefly considers dumping the wine out over both of their heads. 

Sinbad will pay for this later, he knows.

He’ll pay, probably in long hours hunched over a desk, working hard on papers while everyone else has fun in his kingdom, with no company but Ja’far scowling at him and telling him to write faster.

Right now, he can’t quite care. Not while the relief coursing through him is so potent he only realizes now how much he’d been worried, unsure for all his bluster, that Judal really had any strength in him at all. “Ja’far,” he calls, with an apologetic half-shrug, “take care of things for the rest of the day. Cancel all my appointments.”

Ah. Ja'far's going to kill him.

His smile is far too tight to be pleasant. "Of course, Your Majesty. I'll be happy to." I'm going to kill you. You're so predictable that I want to strangle you.

Judal grins, and Ja'far nearly sends a knife into his eyeball when the little wretch sticks his tongue out at him before turning back to Sinbad. "It's white rukh now," he excitedly explains, grabbing at Sinbad's arm and latching on tightly. "Al-Sarmen doesn't want that, so they won't want me back. Not that I wanna go," he hastens to add. "I want to stay here."

He’ll pay for it later. Later is a good time.

Just now, Sinbad waits just until they get out of the room before scooping Judal up into his arms, a grin of relief, gratitude, and anticipation on his face. “I wouldn’t have let you go,” he says, “even if you’d never seen a rukh again. But now…”

He leans in for a kiss, eyes lidding. “Now that I have my very own Magi, what on earth will I do with him?”

The flutter of excitement in Judal's chest leaves him breathless, and he wriggles in Sinbad's arms, grasping at his hair to kiss him again. "Anything, anything you want," he eagerly returns, breath hitching. The rukh is happy too, fluttering too fast and numerous as he nuzzles his way into Sinbad's neck. Mine, mine, mine. "It's better now, than if you had said 'yes' before."

The power swells in Sinbad, the sense of the world opening before him, that he can truly do anything, that it’s his to save, his to conquer, his to protect, that maybe again he’ll have something to offer the world and ah, what’s the danger of becoming nothing but an obsolete pawn tucked away to the south if he has a Magi at his side? Not under his rule, not under his thumb, but at his side, a partner. “Much, much, much better,” he agrees, and even if it shouldn’t be the first thing on his mind, his feet stray to carry them to his bedroom.

His eyes blaze, full of possibilities and ah, Judal’s lips are sweet, as sweet as the smile on his face. “Tell me, Magi,” he breathes, bearing them down to the bed, “what color is my rukh now?”

Sinbad's bed feels like less a cage to languish in now and far more the warm, soft place of comfort and pleasure that Judal remembers it being on cold nights or when he'd come to simply ask again and again. I don't have to do that anymore, he giddily reminds himself, and his hands are fast and eager to fist into Sinbad's clothing, dragging him down and closer as Judal wriggles against him, pliant and wanting. "Really, really bright," he sighs, teeth briefly grabbing hold of an earring and tugging. "Mmn--like the sun." Al-Sarmen is stupid, stupid if they ever thought there was a better candidate than this man.

Judal’s mouth is sweet, and Sinbad claims it over and over again, pressing him down to the bed, the soft press of his flesh so welcoming that Sinbad sighs through his nose, hands threading through Judal’s hair. “I’ll try not to shine so bright,” he says, voice eager, low. One hand comes up to caress Judal’s cheek, pale and warm. “My moon flower.”

Judal shivers, melting down into the sheets with another little squirm as his eyes lid and his head butts into Sinbad's hand, as affectionate as any favored pet. "Like it when you do, though," he mumbles, skin flushing hot as he looks up at Sinbad through his lashes. "No one else does, not like you." 

Sinbad’s breath catches in his chest at the look in those eyes, and feels it echoed in his own. He can’t help but feel that for Judal, just for Judal, he’d throw away everything he’s worked for at a stray word, and the fact that he doesn’t have to just makes him relish the feeling all the more. “No one ever will,” he murmurs, and captures Judal’s mouth in another kiss, biting, tugging on Judal’s bottom lip. “You’re mine.”

It wouldn't have been like this with Kouen.

It wouldn't have been like this with anyone else. It's only this man, the man that he raised dungeons for before he realized who he really was, the man that never did once turn him away even when he was at his worst--

Judal trembles, surging up with a too-fast, eager breath, the flutter and chirp of Sinbad's rukh almost too bright and too much but that's fine, because he can see it again, can feel it pulse against him and that's what he wants, more than anything. Please, please start listening to me again, he begs his own. Please, I don't want to disappoint him, I want him to keep me.

"Yours," is the whispering sigh in agreement. His hands drag down Sinbad's back, lips parting with a shaky breath. "You feel really, really good right now." 

“Ah, so do you. You feel good,” Sinbad murmurs, and kisses Judal’s neck. “You taste good.” He works his way down, hands tugging at the ties of Judal’s robes, parting them easily. “You smell good.”

He looks up, head resting on Judal’s belly, and the bright excitement turns into something soft, possessive at the sight of Judal’s face. “Let me give you everything you’ve ever wanted.”

When has anyone ever offered him that, except for Sinbad? Judal barely manages a nod, his hands fisting in the sheets as he trembles, eager and wanting. "The same, then," he mumbles, and shuts his eyes briefly from how hot his skin flushes. "I… I wanna give you the same, I promised I would as your Magi, so…"

Who else, but Judal, promises him things? They serve him, carry out his vision, trust him, lend him their strength, but oh, this is different. Judal might as well be a god for all the power he has, and that belief in him, the fact that Judal has chosen him over every king in the world--

“It’s ours,” Sinbad whispers, twining his fingers with Judal’s, clasping his hand tight. “The whole world, if we want it.”

Yes, yes, yes, that's what I want.

That being said, just having Sinbad's bed in his tiny little island country isn't so bad, either.

Judal tugs on his hand, drawing it upward to press his lips to, mouth parting to gently teethe over his knuckles. "No one else is stronger than you," he sighs, untangling their fingers, to better kiss and nibble at Sinbad's instead. "No one, and I'll make you even stronger. I'll raise dungeons for all of your allied countries, and you'll have armies more powerful than anyone else in the world, more wealth than anyone else." 

Just the thought makes Sinbad’s heart thud, his blood sing. He stretches up, laying along Judal’s body with his own, pressing warm and hard down against the younger man as he moves slowly, both of them surrounded by silks and satins and perfumes, surrounded by each other. “As long as I have you by my side.” Judal’s body feels good beneath him, a welcoming thing, soft and pliant to his whims as his mind, his heart. “I have no doubts about anything, now that I have you here.”

"I'm not going anywhere." Ever, ever, ever, I'm staying here. Judal shudders, a hitching, breathless sound escaping his throat as he sucks a finger into his mouth, brow knitting as his legs spread, his back arches and god, it feels good just rubbing against Sinbad like this, slow and easy and languid. 

Sinbad exhales slow and hot over Judal’s neck, mouthing the skin there with an easy, hungry seal of his mouth. He rocks down, curling his finger against Judal’s tongue, his hips against Judal’s hips, his hand in Judal’s hair. “Imagine,” he murmurs, nipping and tugging at Judal’s ear--mm, should ask him about getting them pierced--with his teeth, “how many mornings we can spend like this.”

Judal groans, the sound a low, rumbling thing as he sucks on Sinbad's finger as eagerly as he would other things, his own fingers grasping at the man's wrist in a needy little tug. "All of them," he gasps out when he tips his head back, licking his lips of the sticky, gossamer strand that connects them still to Sinbad's hand. "I'll wake you up like this," he breathes, snaking a hand low between them, pawing open Sinbad's robes to pull his cock free. "I'll be on my knees for you before you even need to ask."

Sinbad’s cock jumps against Judal’s hand, and a low, eager purr of a noise makes its way out of his chest against Judal’s ear. “What good service to your king you’ll be, my Magi.” He parts the rest of Judal’s robes, hand sliding down over his stomach, curling his fingers around the pale flushed length. “Your king enjoys rewarding loyal service.”

Just Sinbad's hand shouldn't feel so good, but god if it doesn't make him pant and arch, his head lolling back with a shudder as his own fingers tighten in a firm squeeze as he strokes upward. His Magi. Yes, that's right, Sinbad's, just Sinbad's, and that makes his breath come even faster as he lurches and squirms. "Want you to use me." And Judal means it. "I'm yours, whatever you want, I'll do it for you--"

Judal’s hand spurs Sinbad on, curling and squeezing and stroking, circling a thumb over the head to slick Judal’s cock as he strokes down it again. “Want to make you scream my name,” Sinbad says with a growl, eyes alight with mischief, arousal, hunger. “Want to make you forget every other man you’ve ever had.”

"S-Sinbad--" the breathy squeak of his king's name escapes before he can stop it, his hips twitching upward into his grasp with a mindless, sinuous arch of his back. Judal bites down on his lower lip, eyes shutting as his heels dig into the bed, toes curling with each throb of his cock, and his own fingers falter, fumbling no matter their need to stay wrapped about Sinbad's cock, to feel the weight of him in his palm, so hard and thick that it makes Judal's breath catch. "I can't… think of anyone else but you. No one else even comes close."

Sinbad hisses out a breath, hips rutting down against Judal’s hand, a mindless, needy rocking. His own hand tightens, giving Judal something tight to thrust into, and Sinbad’s teeth sink into Judal’s shoulder, sucking, biting. He doesn’t usually care, isn’t usually possessive like this, but with Judal it’s different. He wants Judal, wants to possess him, enough that he’d scare himself if Judal didn’t seem so fucking pleased to be owned. “I do,” Sinbad says, answering a question Judal hasn’t asked. “I own you, Judal, as you do me.”

That's what he wanted, more than anything, for as long as he can remember, and god, he finally has it.

Judal whimpers, hips rutting shamelessly into Sinbad's hand, each jerk and slide enough to drive him further mad. There's enough friction to make him hiss and sigh, enough slickness to make him wriggle, and god, it's hard to keep his own hand tight around Sinbad when his eyes roll back in pleasure, no matter the eagerness of his fingers to squeeze tight, to messily stroke upward over the leaking tip of the man's cock before dragging back down again. 

It's with a shuddering gasp that he comes, jerking up with a harsh, ragged breath to follow, muscles bunching and quivering. Everything feels good, and his vision blurs as he sags into the bed, boneless and all but purring. 

Sinbad knocks Judal’s hand away, preferring to simply rut down against the smooth skin of Judal’s abdomen and hips, siding slick and heavy against him until he spills, hot and wet over Judal’s hip. He shudders, burying his face in Judal’s shoulder, a ragged grin splitting his face. “Now I really should get you a collar. Mark you as mine.”

Judal groans at that, arching his back to wriggle against Sinbad just a little bit more, his own smirk languid and sated. "Do it, I'll wear it," he sighs, dragging his hands down Sinbad's back, stroking over the hard lines of muscles beneath fabric. "I'll wear whatever you wanna put me in." 

Sinbad nuzzles into Judal’s neck, nose rubbing gently against his ear as he kisses the bruises he’s left behind. “Will you let me pierce your ears?”

A slow blink follows that. "… If you want," he agrees with a shrug, shivering a little at the thought. "I dunno why I never had them pierced before… probably was afraid they'd get caught up in my hair or something."

“I’ll untangle your hair.” Now that the idea’s in his head, Sinbad likes it a lot. He pillows his head on Judal’s arm, kisses his shoulder again before pulling the blanket over them both. Maybe it’s a lie, a good one, and he’ll wake up to Judal’s knife in his back, but he doubts it. “Tomorrow.”

 

~~

He's angry with Sinbad, and that anger clears most of the parliamentary staff from the building, leaving Ja'far to work in solitude for a few hours until he thinks himself calm enough to return to the main areas of the palace. Even then, everyone stays clear of his presence--not because he's angry, but because he's worried, and that anxiety carries into every little twitch of movement. 

It's better, if he checks on the child and gets it over with. 

Food is always a good liaison, and Ja'far tries not to look too tense when he knocks on Aladdin's door, a basket over one arm. Really, if he finds one bit of proof that Judal somehow manipulated Aladdin into all of this--

Ah, it's best not to think about the things he would do.

“Come in!” Aladdin chirps without thinking, then remembers that he had planned to be sick today. Ah, well, too late for that, so he just pulls the blanket around himself as if that’ll serve as some kind of protection. “Ah, Ja’far--are you...feeling okay?” Please don’t be too mad at me, please don’t be too mad at me, please don’t be too mad at me...

The door cracks open, and Ja'far's frown immediately deepens, brow furrowing in open concern. "I would ask the same of you--I haven't seen you all day, are you all right?" If Sinbad were here, he'd be openly teased for fretting, but so help him, he'd probably strangle the man in public for it at the moment. Shutting the door behind himself, Ja'far makes his way to Aladdin's bedside, setting the basket of food down as he sets a hand on Aladdin's forehead, brushing aside his bangs. "He didn't do anything to you, did he?" 

Aladdin tries to hold up his brave face, but the genuine concern in Ja’far’s tone coupled with the gentle brush of his hand brings tears to prick Aladdin’s eyes, and his chin trembles as he shoves his face into Ja’far’s chest. “I’m sorry, I should have asked first because it’s your kingdom and he’s your king and I know you don’t like him and I should have asked first but Al-Sarmen shouldn’t have taken his powers away and he told me to just let him die and I thought he was going to die and the rukh wanted him back and I’m sorry--”

Oh. 

That's… different than he thought, by far.

Ja'far sucks in a slow breath as he settles onto the edge of the bed, wrapping his arms firmly around Aladdin and keeping him close. "I'm not mad at you," he quietly says, stroking a hand back over the top of his head. "I was just worried, because I thought maybe he had done something to make you do this." Off-base again, of course. Ja'far wonders if he's losing his touch--at least, concerning Judal. He sighs tiredly. "Really, the most annoying thing was how unexpected it all was, but that was more Judal's doing, not yours." 

Aladdin burrows into Ja’far, into that comfort, the soft warmth that he’s so very rarely felt from another person who isn’t laughing or smelling of expensive perfume and smoke. Ja’far is the most comforting person he knows, and he needs that right now. “He didn’t make me,” he admits. “It was...I told him I could probably do it but I didn’t know what it would do to him. I think…” He pulls back a bit, looking up at Ja’far through watery eyes. “I think the Wisdom of Solomon sealed off the black rukh. I didn’t even know it could do that.”

"He did mention that he has white rukh now," Ja'far quietly notes, and his hand gently cups Aladdin's face to thumb away a tear from his cheek. "Well, that's about as good of a result as we could hope for, then, isn't it? You should be happy. Sinbad certainly is." 

Aladdin leans into Ja’far’s hand, nodding. “I want Sinbad to be happy, and I know Judal really wanted to be his Magi. I...I couldn’t.” He bites his lip, looking down. “Judal said he told Sinbad, so I bet he told you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I chose Alibaba before.” This is why he hates lying; all the truth comes out sooner or later, and it hurts to think people will think differently about you afterward.

Ja'far can't help the wry smile that pulls at his lips. "It's really fine. I sort of guessed long before Judal confirmed it, anyway." He sighs long and hard, and with that, inelegantly flops himself to the side onto the bed, dragging Aladdin properly up against his chest with the long sleeves of his robes draped around him. "You worried me sick, you know. Not knowing where you went, or what happened after I spoke to Judal last night--I was sure he had lost his mind and killed you." 

Aladdin lets out a happy little noise, curling his hands in Ja’far’s robes and butting his head against Ja’far’s chest. It’s not as good as if he had boobs--that would be perfect--but it’s still good, and less distracting probably anyway. “I hope he won’t kill anyone unless he has to, after this. I think it’ll take him a long time to learn how to use the white rukh. So...you know, if Al-Sarmen figures out he’s alive, they might come here, and...I don’t want you to get hurt. So…” He swallows hard. “Even though Sindria has a Magi now, can I please stay? I can help keep you safe!”

Oh, there's no doubt that Al-Sarmen already knows, but Ja'far bites down on that, lest he make Aladdin feel guilty for something that honestly isn't his fault. "Of course you can stay. You don't even have to ask," he admonishes, frowning. "That being said… are you implying that he can't use his abilities as he used to?" There's both relief and irritation in that. I doubt he's told Sin as much.

Ah, Aladdin’s having to think of lots of analogies today. He burrows in, relaxing into Ja’far’s arms at the permission to stay, and thinks. “It’s like...I took away his dark rukh. Like I took away your wires and blades and gave you a bow and arrow, or a slingshot, or a big broadsword. You still know how to fight, but you have to learn it all over the new way.”

"I see." Well, that isn't very useful at all. At least the brat will be a bit more manageable if he isn't moping around all of the time, though, and stressing Sinbad in that way--at least, Ja'far can hope for as much. Ja'far sighs, dropping his chin atop Aladdin's head. "Then while you stay here, you can watch him and make sure he doesn't do anything foolish." 

“Sure! And I’m gonna try and teach him, too. He taught me how to heal you, so it’s only fair that I teach him the right way to do things.” That’s probably a little arrogant, but at least Aladdin knows he’s not going about things the hateful, selfish way. He grins, asking, “Hey, Ja’far, I’ve gotten a lot bigger since the last time we fell asleep like this, huh?”

"A lot bigger," Ja'far wryly says. At least there's some relief to be found in the idea that Aladdin will be supervising, though Ja'far doesn't put it past Judal to still mess a dozen and a half things up for all of them. "You're going to be taller than me at this rate, then what?" 

Aladdin laughs, his hand reaching up to pat the top of Ja’far’s head. “It’s okay, I’ll just crouch down really low, or I’ll dangle my legs off the bed. I like snuggling like this.”

"Make sure you grow taller than Sinbad, then, while you're at it," Ja'far teases, butting his head lightly against Aladdin's hand. "He'd be terribly jealous." Serves him right.

“And what about when he kicks me out of the kingdom for being taller than him? Or--what if he gets a grey hair?” Aladdin asks, a grin on his face. He threads his fingers down, marveling at how different Ja’far’s hair is from anyone else’s he’s ever touched, like cornsilk. “Say, Ja’far, where are you from?”

"He already has grey hairs," he says, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "But don't worry, I won't let him kick you out. You always have a place here, I've told you before." Ja'far's mouth twists, and his own fingers move to the end of Aladdin's braid to affectionately tug. "I'm from a long ways north of here, where I never got sunburnt just walking outside for five minutes, and where the rain was ice, more often than not." 

Aladdin shivers, tucking both of his arms up against Ja’far’s chest. The rain is ice? He’s getting cold just thinking about it. Somehow, it’s easy to imagine Ja’far in a place like that, standing on a field of ice that matches his hair. “What are the people like? Are they nice? Or are they cold too?”

"The people I knew weren't very nice, no." Ja'far reaches for the corner of the bedsheets, pulling them up and around Aladdin. On an idle thought, he twists, turning to pluck a freshly baked honey bread from the basket of food he brought, and turns back around to dangle it in front of the boy's face. "I was rather young when I left. I don't remember much of it, honestly, because it was so long ago… just that it was cold and grey--nothing like it is here." 

Aladdin’s eyes go wide enough that they reflect the bread, and he grabs for it, tucking it into his hands like squirrel with the most prized of nuts, taking little tiny bites to try and make it last. “Is that why you left?” he asks, around a sticky-sweet-perfect mouthful. “I came from somewhere really cold and grey too. I never thought there would be somewhere so colorful and warm with so many people in it.”

"Mmn… it's nice, isn't it?" He might as well haul the whole basket up here at this rate. "I left when my parents died. There was nothing left for me there, anyway; following a hand that would feed me was a far better alternative than starving. A few years later was when I met Sinbad." 'Meeting' him was one term for it, at any rate.

Aladdin’s eyes track the movement of Ja’far’s hand. Yep, definitely reaching for another bun, which means it’s okay to finish this one a bit faster. He pops it into his mouth, savoring the rush of flavor that’s even stronger when he eats just for fun, and not to feed his magoi. “Was he naked when you met him too?”

Ja'far can't stop the snort of laughter to follow that. "No," he replies, openly amused, and scoots away just enough to set the basket between them. "Far from it." 

Aladdin frowns at the new arrangement. Yes, it provides more food, but far fewer cuddles. Instead, he flops over to curl up with his back tucked into Ja’far’s front, the basket in front of them both. “You mean he was wearing extra clothes?”

Point taken--cuddles are necessary. Ja'far drapes an arm back over him, chin set upon Aladdin's shoulder. "Believe it or not, he used to attempt to dress as a warrior, not a lazy king." 

“Really? Sinbad?” This feels like storytime, and Aladdin’s toes curl in excitement as he grabs another bun. “With armor and everything?”

"Mmm, close enough. Definitely not as much jewelry, either; he'd only conquered two dungeons, then." 

It’s kind of hard to imagine Sinbad so long ago, and so much less powerful. “Was he very different back then?”

"… Not so much," Ja'far settles upon. "A lot more naive, a lot more… ah… well, he hated being in one place for any period of time. And he was louder, and much more… open, I suppose you could say. But he still drank a lot." A roll of his eyes follows. "Still a man of a dozen vices, really."

“Hmm.” It’s strange, to picture Sinbad so much more wild, young, free, and yet Ja’far still by his side. Or would it be more strange to picture them apart? “Were you very different, then?”

Sometimes, he wonders, but essentially--"Very. I wasn't a very good person at all." 

“Really?” Aladdin twists just enough to look up at Ja’far, surprised. “I can’t imagine you not being a good person. What happened?”

Ja'far merely smiles, a little shrug following. "Even as a child, I had more than enough magoi for… less than savory people to take notice of me when my parents died. Not that I was given much of a choice, but well, being that young, and on the streets, there's little one won't be inclined to do for a scrap of food and the promise of somewhere warm to sleep." He gives Aladdin's braid a gentle tug. "I didn't know what to call them, then, but you'd probably know those people better as Al-Sarmen."

For some reason, such a surprising revelation isn’t much of a surprise--or even much of a revelation. Aladdin blinks, tucking himself under Ja’far’s arm even more firmly, as if suddenly afraid he’ll go somewhere. “It must have been awfully hard to leave them. I know it was for Judal, and they didn’t even want him. You must have been really brave.”

"… My first meeting with Sinbad was on a mission to assassinate him." Ja'far gives Aladdin a gentle squeeze. "I'd like to think I came close, but any failure to Al-Sarmen is considered a complete one. They don't want you back after something like that, so I think it was less bravery and not having a choice, especially when Sinbad refused to kill me and decided he wanted to keep and feed me like a pet instead." He snorts, rolling his eyes. "He's never been the best decision maker."

“I think he does that to everyone,” Aladdin points out, “and, I mean, he’s doing pretty well, you know? He’s the king of a lot of countries, and the people in the streets really seem like they love him.” He curls his arms around Ja’far’s, pillowing his head on Ja’far’s upper arm. “So do you.”

Ah, well. There's not much use in debating that. "He's a good man," Ja'far quietly agrees, tipping his head forward to press a kiss to the back of Aladdin's head. "Even though he tries to take on far too much sometimes, and--" Thinks with the wrong anatomy more often than not. "--doesn't quite think things through as he should."

Aladdin nods slowly, even as his eyes flutter shut. He’s rarely felt so secure, so safe, so loved in his life, and it makes him sigh happily as he relaxes back. “But that’s why it’s good he has you.”

"… Now if only he'd listen to me once in awhile," Ja'far chuckles, curling himself up around Aladdin contently. "Enough of that, though. Get some rest." Whatever work I have left can wait.

Aladdin nods sleepily. “Okay. I’ll...we can...the morning.”


	14. Chapter 14

_Five years later_

_~_

 

Aladdin can’t quite figure out how to knock.

 

The shields surrounding Sindria are _massive_ , the biggest he’s seen that he can remember, obviously crafted by someone who knows what he’s doing. A little swell of pride and gratefulness rises up in Aladdin; he’d _known_ Judal could be a good Magi, he’d known it from the moment they’d met, even if Judal had been pretty awful back then. 

 

Outside the shields, everything for miles around has obviously been deserted for quite a while. The same beaten road is still there, but it takes Aladdin a while to find it under all the sand that’s blown over, no longer kept clean by hundreds of feet sweeping it aside every day. That’s how the roads in this part of the world work, he remembers; one good sandstorm is enough to knock them off the map.

 

Undaunted, he circles around to the other side, hovering over the ocean. This would have taxed him quite a bit a few years ago, after so long a flight, but now he’s far more concerned with the fact that the shields _do_ seem to go all the way around--and all the way up, he discovers, forming a dome.

 

Just a dome?

 

He dives, first underwater and then tunneling under land, only to ram his nose into the shield. Nope, it’s a sphere.

 

He tries yelling as loud as he can, standing dripping on the shore, amplifying his voice with magic. The sand stirs and shivers, the air reverberating like the inside of a bell, but the shield doesn’t budge.

 

_I didn’t want to do this_ , he thinks, worrying at his lip. But…

 

The faces of those he’s left behind swim in front of his vision. _I can always apologize later._

 

Apologetically, he sharpens his power into a razor-sharp drill, calling the fire to bore a tiny hole in the shield, wedging his power into the gap and widening. 

 

The shield collapses, smacking him back several paces, knocking him tail over teakettle into the sand dunes, and he flips back onto his feet with a huff. “That wasn’t necessary,” he mutters, rattled enough that he doesn’t throw his power out in front of him to check for a second shield.

 

_That was a mistake_ , he thinks as it zaps him, half a second before he hits the ground and everything goes dark.

 

Judal feels less the poking and prodding (he's learned to tune it out, at this point, because god, if he didn't, he'd be screaming at fish all day) and more the eventual _disintegration_ of the first shield entirely. The second one zapping something like a fly is just a bonus.

 

Briefly, he wonders who would bother, and starts getting a little paranoid. Someone from Kou? Maybe. But they don't send princes or princesses anymore, or even messengers. Everything is by word of mouth, passed to Sindria as quietly and subtly as possible, a thing that makes Ja'far bite his nails off on a daily basis when they find out yet another trade route has been shut off from their port. 

 

It's probably some low-class idiot, at best.

 

The magic carpet unfurls, and Judal leaps onto it before it's entirely finished doing so, the flight a quick and easy one as he surveys the damage. Finding the spot where the second shield was poked is easy enough, and he scowls at it, slipping through it with a touch to find the culprit, because without a doubt, they'd be out like a candle's flame after jabbing at it.

 

The sight that greets him is definitely surprising.

 

" _You!_ " Never mind that Aladdin is unconscious. He'll yell at him anyway. At least--it is Aladdin, right? He's definitely older if it is, Judal notes as he floats down, carpet hovering a few feet above him as Judal leans over, long braid tumbling over the side as he peers at him. "Hey," he mutters, and a little flick of magic pings the other Magi in the forehead. "Wake up, shorty. You didn't have to break my shields, now I have to fix them."

 

Another zap wakes Aladdin, and he squints up into the bright sunlight, blinking until the figure above him resolves into a person. When it does, he can’t help but beam, scrambling to his feet no matter the lingering aftershocks of the shield’s power. “Judal! I’m sorry, I would have asked, I yelled and yelled and poked but nothing happened, I don’t mind putting it up again…”

 

He trails off, looking the older Magi up and down, smile not wavering a bit. If anything, it brightens. “You look _great_!”

 

He does. Draped in silky, slinky gauze and other fine fabrics, with his hair longer than ever and as well cared-for as Aladdin’s ever seen it, his form filled out just enough that his ribs aren’t showing anymore, and delicate bejeweled golden chains looping around his belly, threading through a ring fastened to his navel, Judal looks lovely. Even his face has changed, and not just the angle, now that he’s taller by a good few inches. There’s also, he notices with immense satisfaction, only white (and a bit of grey) rukh surrounding him, buoying him aloft in the air.

 

… 'Shorty' probably isn't a good nickname anymore, all things considered.

 

Far from it, actually. Aladdin really has _grown_ \--tall and lanky but well-muscled and _handsome_ , with that same beaming smile and wide eyes and--

 

Ah. Actually, staring for too long is enough to make him flush, and so Judal huffs, turning his nose up as he straightens from his sprawl across the carpet. "I'll put it back up, it's fine. Just come on and get up here already, I don't like being outside of these things for too long."

 

A light touch of one foot to the sand is all it takes, and Aladdin settles comfortably next to Judal on the carpet. He wavers, wanting to hug the older man, but it’s entirely too easy to imagine that Judal has changed as much as...well, as much as _he_ has. 

 

He settles for flopping out along the carpet, wriggling his toes over the edge. “I missed you.”

 

"Mmn." The carpet spins round, and they're back within the safety of the shields in an instant, Aladdin passing through _without_ being zapped into unconsciousness this time. "… It's been a long time," Judal mumbles. _Don't look at him, don't look at him, it should be a damned crime to grow up and look that good._ He takes a deep breath, his next exhale spinning out the layers of the shield Aladdin destroyed, thin, curving webbing before it solidifies into the sphere it was before. "There. It should recognize you, next time. We hadn't heard from you in so long, so I didn't really think about it…" 

 

“Sorry. I thought about sending a messenger ahead, but…” Things had happened so fast, and there wasn’t anyone to _go_ , really. Ah, well, all that nastiness can wait until he talks to Sinbad. For now, Aladdin scoots over to lay his head on Judal’s thigh, beaming up at him. “You look really good. Are you still happy you chose Sinbad as your king?” If he hadn’t, what with the way things have gone, Aladdin rather doubts there would still be a Sindria standing.

 

Judal huffs. "Of course I'm still happy I chose him. I--" Looking down at him is a mistake. Judal feels heat rise to his face again, only amplified by the fact that _this is the boy--nope, definitely not boy, definitely_ man _now--that saved me from being a shell for the rest of my life._

 

It makes something twist in his chest, that's for sure.

 

"… Why are you here, anyway? I thought you were with Fattybloba all this time." The carpet starts its descent, and Judal hesitantly slides a hand over to toy with the end of Aladdin's braid. "Are you going to stay for awhile?"

 

Aladdin’s smile dims, some of that worry creeping back in. He can’t help but think of Alibaba’s face the last time he’d seen him, the anger, the sadness, the betrayal, and he turns his head, butting it against Judal’s stomach. “Probably not. I came to ask Sinbad for some help. Alibaba’s in a bad position.” _And even if he put himself there, I still have to help him._

 

At least Judal still smells better than anyone he’s ever met.

 

"Depending on what it is, he's probably gonna laugh in your face," Judal warns, frowning a little. "The Kou Empire is making a lot of trouble for Sindria, so he's already got his hands full." The carpet stills a few feet from the ground in front of the palace, and Judal gives him a little shove. "Off already, I still don't have boobs, so don't rub your face on me." 

 

Aladdin tumbles obligingly to the ground, landing lightly on the ball of one foot. Sindria is a bit quieter than he remembers, but at least the people he sees moving around seem happy, and healthy, and don’t dart their eyes nervously from side to side while hurrying from doorway to doorway. “You’re still really soft and you still smell good,” he points out logically. “And…” He folds his hands behind his head, stretching out. “For now, I’ll just be a guest, okay? I can talk about more serious things with Sinbad later.”

 

Judal heaves a sigh, leaping from the carpet as well and letting it furl back up. "Fine, fine. I don't have anything to do today, anyway, so I guess I'll entertain you." In retrospect, that probably sounds sort of inappropriate. "Uh, I mean--are you hungry?" Ah. When actually standing, he definitely notices that Aladdin is taller than him now. 

 

Aladdin lets out a laugh, even as his stomach growls. “Always,” he admits. “I guess some things don’t change, huh?” 

 

He takes Judal’s hand, tugging him down the corridors. “The kitchens are still this way, right?” Strange, the paintings on the walls had seemed so high up before.

 

"You don't have to lead me, I know where I'm going," Judal protests, though one weak attempt to tug his hand away doesn't really constitute an effort. He sighs, letting himself be dragged along, and at least it's hilarious to watch the kitchen staff's eyes widen in utter horror at the sight of _two_ Magi appearing. "Look, they even remember you."

 

For the first time in Sindria’s kitchens, Aladdin hesitates, holding back to look up--nope, down--at Judal. “There’s...enough, right?” he asks uncertainly. “For all the people? How much can I eat?”

 

_And this is why Sinbad's gonna laugh in your face._

 

Judal bites his tongue--he's gotten a bit better at that, at least, though not as good as most. "Just eat," he sighs, releasing Aladdin's hand to wave him away, further into the kitchens. "You're a Magi and a guest, they'd be mad if you _didn't_ eat your fill."

 

Aladdin wants to ask again, just to make sure, but the aroma is too much, and it’s been _far_ too long since he’s been able to eat the way he really needs to.

 

The next several minutes are something of a blur. He hardly tastes the food, and the way the rukh surges back into him is something of a shock, making him realize just how long he’d been operating without his full power. 

 

In fact, it’s a rather _intense_ shock to his system, and he blinks sleepily up at Judal, fruit juice from a dozen varieties mangled on his face. “Can I...take a quick nap?” he mumbles, just before sinking to the floor.

 

Some things never change, apparently.

 

"You're a lot of work, you know that?" Judal mutters, bending over to haul Aladdin up and off of the floor. "Don't pass out _here_ , geez. Come on, try and walk right, I don't wanna waste magoi making you float all the way to a guest room." _He_ has to eat a lot, too, and lately, that's more an inconvenience than something anyone finds _cute_.

 

Aladdin blinks, taking a deep breath and mustering the energy to right himself. He doesn’t wobble nearly as much as he used to, most of the food going to the reserves of energy he’d depleted so drastically in the last several months. “Sorry,” he mumbles, blinking away the last of the impulse to sleep. “I’m fine, I can walk. And I already wasted your magoi by taking your shield down, too.”

 

"Yep." No use trying to not sound annoyed about it. Judal sighs all the same, grabbing his arm and tugging him away from the kitchens, much to the staff's relief. "If you want a nap, you can just crash in my room for awhile. Sinbad probably won't be out of parliament for awhile, anyway…"

 

“You have a room?” Aladdin’s eyes widen in concern. Sure, Judal had said that he’s still glad to have picked Sinbad, but… “I thought you’d be in Sinbad’s room. Or are you not sleeping in his bed anymore?” Surely, around Judal he can relax about what’s appropriate and what’s not. They’ve known each other for long enough.

 

"I have to have a place to put all my _stuff_ , at least," Judal grumbles, looking more put out than anything. "And Sinbad doesn't want me clinging to him _all_ the time. I mean, I sleep in his bed most nights, but… ugh, why do you care?" A swift yank on Aladdin's arm, and Judal pulls him along. "You're always too nosy--"

 

"Judal! There you are!"

 

"Oh, god," is the defeated exhale underneath the Magi-in-question's breath. And here he thought he would avoid this, what with how _busy_ they've been as of late.

 

"How many times do I have to tell you?" The sharp, precise click of footsteps quickly follows. "A disturbance on your shields like that warrants immediate reporting to either myself, Drakon, or Sin! Also, turn around when I'm speaking to you! You can't just handle it yourself, we need to be aware of what is--" A pause, and Ja'far's blink of surprise is almost audible. "… Aladdin?" 

 

At the sudden sharpness, no matter how it’s mutated into a stunned curiosity, Aladdin winces. “Sorry,” he says by way of introduction, shoulders drooping as he peers up--no, down--in chagrin.

 

But…

 

Ja’far still looks the same, as if he’d been put in some kind of a time-freezing capsule and just unearthed, exactly the same, and Aladdin can’t help the way he bursts into a grin, grabbing the smaller man and picking him up in a fierce hug. “I’m sorry I broke the shield, I didn’t mean to, but he put it back and I didn’t let anyone else in and it’s _really good to see you_!”

 

Ja'far squeaks when he's literally _lifted_ from the ground, blinking rapidly until he's set back down, visibly stunned. "You've _grown_ ," he manages, amazed, and lifts a hand to sort of dazedly straighten his keffiyeh. "I barely recognized you. Don't worry about the shield, it's fine. It's been so _long_ , Aladdin--are you well? You don't look like you've been eating enough."

 

Immediately with the motherhenning. Judal's eyes roll skyward. "I fed him already, before you ask…" 

 

"Well, we need to make sure it's a more regular thing," Ja'far frets, frowning up at him. "Is everything all right? We weren't expecting you."

 

Judal casually attempts to calculate mental measurements upon seeing Aladdin and Ja'far next to one another, coming to the amusing conclusion that Aladdin is almost certainly taller than Sinbad.

 

Aladdin’s smile dims a bit, faltering at the questioning. It’s been so _long_ since he’s seen Ja’far, long enough that it sort of feels like it happened to another person, or in another life. He remembers vividly how safe he’d always felt, snuggled up against Ja’far’s side learning to read, being fed until his stomach groaned, or taking a nap. It’s _probably_ what he’s missed most about Sindria, that comfort. “I ate plenty,” he assures Ja’far, straightening his robes in a vague apology for his exuberance. “Judal said it was okay?” he ends on a slight question. If anyone knows the true state of how much food is okay to lose, it’s Ja’far.

 

"Of course it's okay," Ja'far reassures him, reaching up to give the younger man a pat on the arm. "None of our guests, especially you, will go hungry. Now then--I'll have to see to it that a room be prepared for you, how long will you be staying?" 

 

"I was just gonna let him stay in mine--"

 

Ja'far snorts. "Nonsense, he needs his own. Well, Aladdin?"

 

It’s been a long time since Aladdin has felt so _welcomed_ , so at ease, and it almost makes him uncomfortable. With every second, it’s hard not to think about those left behind, the conditions they’re in, whether he’d be doing more good _there_ after all, and how there are hungry people when he’s being offered his choice of two fine beds at a Palace.

 

He swallows, trying to stay cheerful. It’s been a _long_ time since he’s seen his friends, after all. “I don’t mind where I sleep. Um, maybe I’d better stay in my own, though, because I used a lot of magoi to get here fast. I’ll probably...sleep for a while. Sorry.”

 

Sindria has its own Magi, he reminds himself. They aren’t going to need him to perform miracles every hour, and nothing is going to fall apart if he sleeps a little more.

 

"You can sleep as long as you want," Ja'far reassures him, and with that, he simply takes Aladdin's arm and steers him away. "And once you wake, I'll call a servant to have your bath drawn, and you can simply relax until dinner--or whenever it is you wake up." Magi _do_ tend to sleep quite a bit, even under the best of circumstances, Ja'far has noticed… and Aladdin doesn't look as though he has had the best circumstances as of late. "Judal, there's a foreign princess arriving this evening that requires your abilities--"

 

Judal can't suppress a groan. This was supposed to be an _easy_ day. "But I don't _want_ \--"

 

"I expect you to be _charming_." 

 

"Fixing a broodmare's uterus doesn't require charm--"

 

"No, but signing treaties does. You should go prepare now." Ja'far gives Aladdin's arm a little tug. "Come along, Aladdin. You and Judal can catch up later."

 

Aladdin feels a little flutter from the rukh. _I know_ , he thinks, pleased with himself. Even if they’re not the best of friends, he can see the easy way Ja’far talks to Judal, the fact that neither of them look anywhere close to grabbing for weapons even if they’re annoyed. There’s no real tension in the air, and that in itself is such a rarity that he falls into bed with the finality of a rock, barely able to mumble his thanks before the world goes dark.

 

It’s a long, long time before he stirs, the aches in his body letting him know that he slept deep enough that he didn’t change position once, facedown in his clothes just like when he’d flopped. He stretches slowly, blinking in the dim sunlight. _Morning, or night?_ He wonders. _Which day?_

 

If he’s wasted too long, who knows what could have already happened?

 

_I’d know if he was dead,_ he tells himself. _I’d know._

 

He climbs out of bed, cracking the door to the hallway, peering down it. Ah, he’s lost. Time to wander until he finds something familiar.

 

"Oh, you're up. Good timing."

 

It's Judal, scarcely a few paces from Aladdin's door, and carrying a rather generously full basket of fruit. "I was gonna leave this for you, when you finally woke up," he explains, brushing past the other Magi to simply let himself into the bedroom. "I checked on you a few times before… you know, to make sure you weren't dead. You slept a looooong time. Freckles started getting snippy."

 

The fruit is so ripe Aladdin can smell it, and his mouth waters. When’s the last time he’d seen a real _peach_? He makes sure to eat it slowly, savoring every tangy sweet bite, licking all the juice off his lips. “I didn’t mean to make him worried. How long did I sleep?”

 

"Hmm… about a day and a half?" Judal drops himself down onto the edge of the bed with a sigh, crossing his legs. "You must've really needed it. You didn't move an inch the whole time."

 

“I was really tired from the flight,” Aladdin admits, folding himself onto the bed next to Judal, just a bit closer than most people would, and pulling out a ripe plum. “I flew the whole way from Balbadd.”

 

" _That_ was dumb," Judal bluntly says, eyeing the plum himself for a moment before looking away with a shake of his head. "At least your rukh looks better now. Before it looked like drugged pigeons or something."

 

“I felt like a drugged pigeon.” Aladdin reaches into the basket, pulling out the juiciest peach and offering it. “I didn’t really want to spend the extra time walking, though. You like these a lot, right?”

 

It takes effort, telling his stomach not to rumble. "You eat it, I already ate lunch." Judal's head tilts slightly. "What was the hurry? I mean, we all know Balbadd's been in bad shape lately, but still…"

 

Aladdin rarely, if ever, has to be told twice to eat something. The peach disappears, along with a handful of dates. “I need Sinbad.”

 

"Why?" is the wary inquiry to follow.

 

Aladdin swallows, and hesitates. Then again, who is he afraid Judal will tell? He has to be loyal to Sinbad, right? And he _wants_ Sinbad to find out, it’s the whole reason he’s here. “Alibaba _wants_ him to help Balbadd,” he says slowly, obviously having an issue with the words. “But...I want to ask him another favor.” He takes a deep breath, then admits, “I want him to talk Alibaba into taking over the country. It needs _him_ , not Sinbad.”

 

"Told you you should've picked a different king." Oops. He probably should've bitten that one back, it's not exactly helpful. Still, though, it's the truth. "Sinbad doesn't have time to babysit _your_ king and teach him how to rule a country. We've got enough going on here."

 

It’s hard not to let that discourage him, but Aladdin is used to discouragement, and disappointment. It hasn’t stopped him so far, and it’s not about to now. “But if Balbadd were able to stand on its own against the Kou Empire, that would help Sindria, wouldn’t it?” _Until Sinbad says no_ \-- _until he_ keeps _saying no_ \-- _there’s still a chance._

 

"Maybe a _little_ but Balbadd's so messed up right now that we'd just be sending stuff to _them_ rather than finding any real use from an open trade route there…" Judal sighs, flopping backwards onto the bed. "I dunno, I don't think Sinbad's going to like it. You can ask him, but I'm just warning you. Geez, what kind of king candidate wants another king in charge, anyway…"

 

“I don’t want _stuff_.” Aladdin hops up, walking over to lean out the window, staring down at the bustling city outside the palace walls. “Alibaba could take over Balbadd. It’s his, and the people know it. They--most of them-- _enough_ of them--want him to be king. He’s just being stubborn, and it’s...going really bad. If he just stood up, I think all the people would do it with him.”

 

"Useless," Judal sighs out, rolling onto his belly to prop his chin in his hands. "I feel bad for you, but I honestly don't understand why someone would be stubborn about becoming king."

 

Aladdin’s thought a lot about this, and he leans out the window a minute, feeling the fresh sea breeze with a sigh of contentment. He flops backwards, wriggling around until he’s close to Judal, and asks, “If Sinbad’s father were a king, do you think he’d have been excited about being one too?”

 

"Hmm… maybe? But he still would have been stupid first, you know. Traveling around, getting into trouble, stuff like that." Judal frowns at Aladdin as he rolls onto his side to better face him.. "What's that got to do with anything? I don't think it's a matter of how you were raised. If he gives a damn about his country, he'll step up."

 

Of all the things Aladdin has heard people say about Alibaba, that is the one that he hates the most. “He cares. He--he let them lock him up, and they say awful things about him, and throw things sometimes, and chased him through the streets, and--he could be a king but he thinks it’s _wrong_ , he doesn’t think he deserves it, and…” He swallows hard, burying his face in Judal’s chest as he blinks rapidly. “He cares a lot,” he mumbles.

 

"… Then he's an idiot," Judal says, and it's with a sigh that he drops a hand atop Aladdin's head, tugging gently on his hair. "At some point, he's gotta realize that isn't working. _Someone_ has to take responsibility."

 

“He’s a little slow,” Aladdin allows, butting his head into Judal’s hand. It seems a lot smaller now than it had when he was younger. “I’m just worried that by the time he figures out that he can’t just... _force_ people to want to live without a king, it’ll be too late.”

 

He looks up, eyes a little red from the tears he hadn’t shed. “I care about him a lot. I just want him to make the right choices.”

 

Ah, dammit.

 

He probably looked a dozen times worse than this years ago, and this is _still_ pretty pathetic. It has a lot to do with it just being _not okay_ to see Aladdin cry for some reason. "I can… maybe try and talk to Sinbad, if he says 'no' when you ask him," Judal uncertainly says. Ugh. He's not sure that's a good idea, but he's never been the best at coming up with them, so… 

 

The hope blooms sudden and intense on Aladdin’s face, such a relief that at least someone else is going to _try_. “Thank you,” he yelps, and kisses Judal on the cheek before grabbing him in a big hug. “It’s okay if it doesn’t work, but thank you!”

 

"Don't _slobber_ on me, what are you, a _dog_ \--" Judal huffs, pushing at Aladdin's chest with a pointed little squirm. "I just said I'd _try_ , don't get so excited yet!"

 

Aladdin laughs, squirming around to pin Judal down to the bed, giving him another pointed kiss, this time on the lips. He can feel the rukh swelling around him now, as if it too is sighing in relief. “I’m still really happy that you’re going to try.”

 

"You get excited over dumb things," Judal mumbles, huffing as he sinks back into the bed, unable to keep the little rise of color to his cheeks. "I'm his Magi, not his advisor, so…"

 

And isn’t _that_ just the truth. Aladdin flops down onto Judal’s chest, nuzzling in to make himself comfortable. “Alibaba doesn’t listen to me that well either. I mean, sometimes he’s right, and he has an idea he just hasn’t told me about yet, but…”

 

"Kings are dumb sometimes," Judal sighs, his eyes lidding as he drapes an arm over Aladdin's back. Even if Aladdin is heavier, this is still nicer than when he was a _kid_. Much more warm, much more solid. His head tips up to butt against one shoulder before doing he same into his neck, sucking in a slow, attempting-to-be-steady breath. "They're all like that."

 

“Annoying,” Aladdin agrees. He hadn’t really understood, back then. Now, he smiles down at Judal, feeling the rukh thrum in time with his pulse. “Hey, you’ve gotten really really good, huh? Your rukh is so happy, and that shield was amazing!”

 

He threads a hand into Judal’s hair, the way he’d always liked. “I’m really glad I could help you.”

 

"… Yeah." _Ah, don't do that, that feels good._ "Me, too. Though nowadays I'm kind of a bargaining chip. I could only use healing magic for so long that it's sort of…" He grimaces. "What everyone knows me for. 'Come to Sindria, our Magi will heal your sickly first born prince… now sign this treaty'--bleh."

 

Aladdin laughs, scratching gently behind Judal’s ear, then nuzzling his nose against the older Magi’s. It feels so good to just roll around with someone again, none of the sad desperation of back home. “I heard about that, even in Balbadd. Everyone’s talking about the White Oracle.” He pauses, grinning. “A lot of them call you the White Queen.”

 

"Ugh, _gross_ ," Judal bemoans, shoving at Aladdin in protest and biting at his shoulder. "Really, really gross! I miss being allowed to freeze Freckles to wall and stuff, that was a lot more fun! Now I have to put up with him shoving the newest books on medicine underneath my nose, I haaate it!"

 

Aladdin can’t help but laugh, then suck in a hiss at the scrape of Judal’s teeth. His smile changes a little, eyes sparkling. “I forgot how much you liked to bite.”

 

"Yeah, well, telling me the bad names people come up with for me is a good way to get bitten," Judal huffs, pouting outright now. 

 

“It’s a _good_ name,” Aladdin assures him, and leans down to bite Judal’s neck softly. “They say it because you’re always around Sinbad, and you’re really pretty. And you stay longer than any of his girls.”

 

_Sounds like something better suited for Ja'far, except the pretty part_ , Judal wants to say, but the scrape and press of Aladdin's own teeth is _distracting_ , pleasantly so, and he shivers, his head tipping back before he can help himself. "They could have picked a better name," he mumbles all the same, sliding a hand up to the back of Aladdin's neck. "I'm still not a girl, you know."

 

“Hmm...it’s been a long time since I checked,” Aladdin teases, and buries his face in Judal’s chest, hand coming up to thumb over a nipple. “Nope, still not a girl.”

 

"Idiot," is the grumble to follow, never mind how his breath hitches at that errant slide of a thumb. "You…" Judal swallows, and god, he has to laugh at himself, just a little, for being so riled up already. "You really grew up, you know. Sinbad was mad when I told him you were taller than him." 

 

Aladdin blinks. “Why would he be mad about that? It’s not like you told him he has grey hairs or anything. Besides, you grew up too. You’re a lot prettier. And I can tell your rukh got _really_ strong.”

 

"Because he knows I like tall guys." Judal _has_ to grin at that. "It made him pout. And hey, I was pretty and strong before."

 

“Yeah, but you’re _more_ pretty and strong now.” Aladdin sits up, straddling Judal as he pushes his hair back. “And you’re not so skinny. You’re fun to touch even if you’re not a lady. I mean, _more_. You were before, too.”

 

Judal's eyes roll, even as he reaches out, absently splaying his hands over the lines of Aladdin's sides, thumbs brushing his hips. "Still pretty enough to touch even though I'm _not_ a girl," he deduces, eyebrows raising. "I'm amazed you don't have a steady girl by now. Don't women come far and wide to woo you yet? That's kind of a thing, when you're a Magi." 

 

“But I like _all_ girls,” Aladdin points out, practically. “And when you go with a girl more than like, three times? She starts getting upset when you go with someone else.” He sighs, shaking his head, leaning forward and propping himself up on Judal’s chest. “I don’t understand girls. Plus, sometimes they think I’m going to do big magic for them, or they lie about if they have husbands. Everything was easier when I was a kid.”

 

It's impossible not to snicker, no matter how he tries to hide it into the top of Aladdin's hair. "So just sleep with guys. It's easier. Plus, then you don't have bastards running around, and rumor has it that Magi children are kinda predisposed to being _stupidly_ powerful." _Looking at you, Scheherazade._

 

Aladdin flops down onto Judal’s chest. “Guys don’t have boobs, though,” he says, defeated. “It’s like a man can’t win.”

 

"You're just nitpicky," Judal chides, patting the back of his head. 

 

Aladdin arches an eyebrow, something he’s gotten a lot better at over the last several years. “You’re picky too, though. I mean, if you like men I guess Sinbad’s probably the best one, but…”

 

"Well, it took awhile to _get_ him," Judal protests. "And now that I have him, there's not really many others that are any good… ah, you don't get it, though; you don't like men like Sinbad."

 

“Not really,” Aladdin agrees. “And I like Alibaba a lot, but he’s my friend and my king and I don’t love him like you love Sinbad. I’d much rather do it with men like you.”

 

That _word_ still makes him blush, just a little. "… I'm amazed you haven't done it with him at least once, though."

 

“I did,” Aladdin says cheerfully. “I mean, I didn’t put it in or anything, but we rolled around for a while. He was _really_ drunk. And the day after he got really embarrassed and kept telling me how much he liked girls.”

 

Okay, that's actually hilarious. "What an idiot," Judal sighs out, laughing as his hands slide down Aladdin's sides, and he squirms a little underneath him, arching his back. " _I_ don't need to be drunk for that. It's not even as fun if you are."

 

Aladdin’s smile widens, and he wriggles his hips, moving around until they’re pressed flush against each other, and he can feel the warm throb of Judal’s cock against his. “I think so too. Besides, you taste as good as wine.” He bends down, tugging on Judal’s earlobe with his teeth, sucking it into his mouth. “Ooh, you got new jewelry. Anywhere else?”

 

Judal shudders, eyes fluttering at just that one little suck, and he twists, squirming to better press his thighs to Aladdin's hips. "Ahh… bellybutton, too," he murmurs on a sigh. "It catches on stuff sometimes… kind of annoying. I _had_ my nipples done, but Sinbad wouldn't leave me alone. Never thought I'd want a break, but geez…" 

 

Curious, Aladdin wriggles his way down, brushing aside silks and gauze to bare Judal’s abdomen, finger gently flicking the piercing. “It’s _really_ pretty,” he murmurs, running his thumb over a delicate chain. “I saw a dancer girl in Heliohapt with this done. Everyone went crazy.”

 

He walks his fingers up, rubbing over one of Judal’s nipples. “Do you still have the holes? In case you wanted to put them back in?”

 

"Y-yeah…" Somehow, it's kind of _nice_ having someone different--and yet still familiar--touch him. It's been a long while, after all, and with the way the rukh flutters so giddily, it's hard _not_ to enjoy it. Judal flops back with a whoosh of air leaving his lungs, stretching out like a cat. "But I dunno if I will. They're almost more sensitive like this, and that's more fun…" 

 

Aladdin grins, crawling up to mouth one through the fluttery fabric, softly biting it through the cloth. Not all men like this, he’s found, even the ones who like it when he plays with them, but this one does. “It’s really happy we’re here together,” he murmurs, dragging a thigh up between Judal’s, pressing down hard. “Feel it dancing?”

 

Judal groans and lurches up, a hand fisting into Aladdin's hair as he wriggles up against him with an eager sigh escaping through his nose. "Mm… mmhm. Kinda hard not to," he breathes, shuddering as his hips insistently roll up, sliding his hard cock against the firm press of Aladdin's thigh.

 

This is a lot more fun now that he’s bigger. He’s certainly not having to crawl around as much to reach everything. He reaches a hand underneath, grabbing Judal’s ass and hefting him up, remembering how much Judal had _liked_ being grabbed and bitten and bossed around. “You feel the same,” he murmurs, voice low. “I bet I feel different. Touch me.”

 

_Different_ is an understatement. Aladdin's so _broad_ now, but not like how Sinbad is at all. He's far lankier, long and lean where Sinbad is heavier built, but ahh, this is nice, too, because there's nothing but tightly wound sinew in every inch of him.  Judal's all too eager to drag his fingers along the other man's shoulders, down his arms, gripping as he wriggles and writhes to get his legs around those lean hips, and his hands splay over Aladdin's chest, grabbing at clothing in order to pull him down as he arches up to snap his teeth playfully against Aladdin's throat. "I never would've thought you'd grow up to look like _this_ ," he breathes. "The rukh must reeeeally like you."

 

“It does.” That’s hardly bragging, not when it flutters and sings whenever he moves, and has since Aladdin can remember. Now, it’s tiny whirlwinds all around them, eager and laughing along with him, his breath hitching when Judal bites and writhes under his hips. _It’s probably been a long time since the White Queen got to play way from the Golden King_ , Aladdin muses. Well, then, he’ll just have to make this extra-fun.

 

He braces his knees on the bed, and eases the waistband of Judal’s pants down, slipping his hand in to wrap around Judal’s cock. He _almost_ mentions, tongue-in-cheek, that it feels smaller than the last time, but Judal would hiss and huff, and it’s more fun to curl his fingers around it and stroke anyway. “You’re so hard here already. It makes you smell even better.”

 

"Always talking about how I smell," Judal groans, laughing as he flops his head back with a heavy exhale, his hips rocking up against Aladdin's hand as he grips at his shoulders. "Do I need to spray a shirt with my perfume, and let you have it when you leave?" He wiggles, sliding a hand down Aladdin's belly, breath hitching as his palm slides between his legs. Ah. _Proportionate_ , too, apparently. That's nice.

 

“Mmm, that would be nice,” Aladdin agrees easily. He swipes his thumb over the head, circling it slowly before sliding his hand back down, eyes lidding as Judal’s hand cups him. “Or I could just take these clothes when we’re done. Everyone smells better after sex.”

 

Judal's mind sort of hiccups. "Whatever you want," he breathes, his fingers all too eager to get past that barrier of cloth, wriggling down to slide over the hard line of Aladdin's cock. He feels _far_ too good in his hand--long and thick and so, so hard. "Come up here," he murmurs, fingers wrapping around to gently squeeze before sliding away, and wriggling himself back up to the pile of pillows at the bed's headboard. "I wanna taste you this time." 

 

Aladdin’s eyes glitter, and he pauses just long enough to wriggle out of his pants, tossing them to the side as he scrambles up, planting a knee on either side of Judal’s shoulders. His legs are long enough that it’s not much of a stretch, whereas before he’d probably have had to kneel on Judal’s chest. “I’ve thought about this before,” he admits. “I thought you’d like it. And the girls say I taste really good.” He wraps a hand around his cock, guiding it to nudge at Judal’s lips.

 

A low, throaty rumble escapes Judal's lips as they part, his tongue flicking out to slide eagerly over the tip of Aladdin's cock. His eyes flutter, hands lifting to grab at the other man's hips, and he tips his head forward enough to suck the head of his cock into his mouth, shivering as he laps at it, releasing it with a ragged little breath. "They're right. _You're_ right," he exhales, eyes dark as he glances up through his lashes, lips wrapping around him again.

 

Judal looks even better like this than Aladdin had imagined, all those times he’d thought about what it would have been like if he’d gotten to do this, that time in Sindria so many years ago. His mouth is soft and wet and as hot as any Aladdin’s ever felt, and this at least is the same with girls. “You’re better than most of the girls,” he admits, hands threading through Judal’s hair. “And you look really pretty with your lips stretched out like that.”

 

Judal huffs through his nose, and ah, he can't help but take that as a _challenge_. Aladdin is _more_ than big enough to make his jaw ache as he bobs his head, swallowing him down until the head of his cock bumps the back of his throat, and Judal lets himself gag, just a little, all to let Aladdin feel the squeeze and spasm of his throat as he swallows hard. His eyes tear, his fingers biting into Aladdin's hips as he _tugs_ , breath escaping hot and fast through his nose, and he quickly finds himself nuzzling into the short hairs at the base of the man's cock, lips stretched wide around him and throat bobbing hard with each messy slurp and suck.

 

Aladdin’s hips jerk forward. Ah, he’d forgotten how _good_ this feels, when it’s someone who’s really good, and Judal is _really good_. “You took it all,” Aladdin breathes, hands clenching a little involuntarily in Judal’s hair, throat bobbing as he tries not to choke the other Magi by thrusting forward too fast. “No one’s done that in years.”

 

If anyone could, he supposes it’s Judal, with his lovely dark-lashed eyes, mouth hungry and needy around him. “Tongue,” Aladdin says through gritted teeth, eyes fluttering shut as he ruts forward in needy little circles, dragging the head of his cock over Judal’s tongue. “R-really good, just a little more--”

 

So help him, he _likes_ being praised like that, being told what to do while his mouth is so full, and so Judal is all too eager to comply, lapping at him with each sloppy slide of his mouth, his tongue dragging hot and wet over the tip of his cock when he lets it slide nearly from his mouth. A few times, he does let it slip out, still wet and sticky and rubbing over him, and he mouths it with swollen, bruised lips, a long, shaky exhale leaving his nose as he lets it drag over his cheek. "Make good use of me, then, will you?" It's less a suggestion, more a plead when his fingers grab at the base of Aladdin's cock and guide it back to his lips. "Fuck my mouth," he begs, tongue sliding against him as he swallows Aladdin again.

 

Ah, so it’s like that.

 

Aladdin has been lucky enough to have his cock in a lot of mouths over the years, and this, this needy, urgent pleading, this is something he understands. The first time, he’d been hesitant, nervous about causing any pain, and the girl had looked at him, confused. _Where’s the problem if I’m having fun?_ She’d asked, and he’d never found a reason to question that.

 

Aladdin had _liked_ her.

 

“You’re very good at this, right?” he asks, hands tightening in Judal’s hair, dragging him down harder. He rolls his hips forward, breath coming fast and hard as he thrusts in, sliding the head down Judal’s throat. “It’s too much, but you want it anyway, right? I bet you’d like it if I held you still and pulled you down all the way.” Judal’s nose bumps his belly by the time he does, the little gagging, choking motions feeling unbelievably good around him, even as he watches Judal’s face to make _sure_ this is what he wants.

 

Oh, god.

 

His eyes roll into the back of his head, the _words_ going straight to his cock as much as the relentless tug of Aladdin's hands, the hard shove of his cock when he's pulled down onto it. Aladdin _gets it_ , and god, that's nice. Judal can't breathe, and his vision blurs, no matter the frantic, fast desperate little inhales through his nose, and something like a whimper is lost in his throat, muffled by the long, thick press of Aladdin's cock as he chokes around it. _Yes, yes, yes, all of that, whatever you say._

 

Aladdin likes being right. He _especially_ likes being right when it’s about what someone else likes, and whether they’re going to enjoy something he does. He can tell that Judal is enjoying this, probably more than he had enjoyed having Aladdin stroke his cock, and Aladdin gives him what he wants, thrusting in hard, deliberate, short strokes, all the way in. 

 

He’d like to make it last, especially now that he’s figured out what Judal likes so much, but that mouth is way too good, the little noises too nice, and Aladdin bites down on his lip, pulling back. “I bet you like swallowing too,” he pants, grinding the head of his cock against Judal’s lips and tongue, out and in, out and in, teasing the head around his lips. “Try to swallow it all, you’ll like the taste.”

 

He doesn’t know _why_ the girls always like words like that, but seeing them squirming and aroused is its own reward, so he’s learned them quite well. His head falls back as he comes hard, painting Judal’s lips at first, his cock bumping forward to finish on his tongue. It’s been a long time, and there’s a lot of it, yet somehow Aladdin doubts Judal will mind.

 

Judal pants hard, swallowing desperate as Aladdin spills over his tongue, and he lifts a shaky hand beneath his own chin to let what he misses drip into his palm. His eyes flutter helplessly as he licks at his lips, at his own fingers as he lifts them up to suck them clean, and he sags back with a groan, shivering with each slick finger that he licks clean, the taste heavy on his tongue and _god_ , his own cock is even harder because of it. 

 

It begs the question, really, of why he never let Aladdin do this _before_. 

 

Aladdin’s hands turn gentle, petting Judal’s hair, his forehead, wiping the sweat from his brow and soothing. “You were really, really good,” he says, swinging his leg over to kneel next to Judal instead of astride him. “It’s like you love cocks the way I love boobs.”

 

Judal contemplates biting him, but that's way too much effort right now. "I don't go around shoving my face into them, though," he grumbles, flopping into the pillows with a shaky little sigh. "I discriminate."

 

Aladdin sighs, hand trailing down Judal’s chest and abdomen. “I don’t much anymore either. It’s different when you’re grown up. Also the heights are all different. Basically now I ask first like any man.” Probably more often than any man, but they obviously don’t know what they’re missing. “Do you want me to suck yours?”

 

"Mnn… you are really tall now, that would make it difficult," Judal sighs, stretching underneath Aladdin's hands, with a slow shiver. "I'd rather you fuck me," he admits, and he reaches over to paw a hand down Aladdin's chest. The thought of that cock inside of him--ahh, yes, that's nice. "How long would it take to get you to that point again, hmm?"

 

“Not long,” Aladdin promises, reaching over to run his hands over Judal’s chest again. Even if he’s not a girl, it’s still a really nice chest, and he rubs his thumbs over the nipples. “Faster if you squirm around and make pretty noises.”

 

Oh, he can do that. In spades, when Aladdin plays with his nipples like that, leaving his breath to hiccup and his hands to reach for his shoulders and drag him close. "Good," Judal murmurs, back arching with a high, breathy sound. "I'm sure you hear all the time… about how you've got a really nice cock."

 

Aladdin grins, pinching, tugging a bit as he leans down to brush his lips over Judal’s. “Sometimes,” he admits. “But I still like to hear it, especially if that means the gi--the person is having fun.” He nuzzles down, asking in a lower, breathier tone, “Do you like my cock, Judal?”

 

Judal can't help but squeak a bit, and his swollen lips part with a rumbling, purring groan, teeth gently nipping into Aladdin's lower lip. "I do. A _lot_." He forgets they aren't in _his_ room, or Sinbad's, anywhere that oils and aloe are kept on the bedside tables at all times, and he huffs in frustration when he swings a hand out and there's nothing within easy reach. Annoying. "Want it inside me," he eagerly murmurs all the same. "When you first showed up again, like this… it was hard not to already think about it."

 

Aladdin laughs, kissing Judal again--even if he hasn’t eaten recently, there’s some faint lingering hint of peaches there, mostly masked by the swell of exotic spices and _himself_ , left over, and Aladdin sort of enjoys kissing that off of him. “I want to put it inside you,” he murmurs, easing Judal’s legs apart. “Thought about it a lot, whenever someone talked about you. Hey, do you have that slippery stuff we used last time?”

 

" _This_ is why i wanted you to stay in my room," Judal grumbles, sighing as he twists around, fumbling into one of the table's drawers instead. Ahh, a little bottle of oil best used for hands is better than nothing, and he flops himself back down, pouring it into his own palm before he reaches down to wrap it around Aladdin's cock. "The oils I have in my room," he breathes, thumb sliding slick and dripping over the head of Aladdin's cock, "smell like my perfume. So when they get everywhere, just like this… it's really nice." 

 

Aladdin’s eyes lid, hips moving in slow, easy circles against Judal’s hand. “You should have brought them in the fruit basket. Now _that_ would be a welcoming gift.”

 

He grabs Judal’s legs, kneeling between them as he spreads them wide. “Do you want to be like this, so I can see your pretty face?” he asks, eyes tracing down to the flushed cock between Judal’s legs and the cleft of his ass beneath. “Or on your stomach, so I can take you really deep?”

 

Why does he have to list options like _that?_ "No wonder you have hundreds of girlfriends," Judal groans, and it's with a heave of effort that he starts to twist and turn himself over. "I want every inch of you in me." 

 

Aladdin grabs Judal’s hips, yanking them back so he can grind against him as he leans over, breath hot against his ear. “I have hundreds of girlfriends,” he breathes, “because I make them feel really, really good. Spread your legs so I can get inside you, your hole is really tight even with the oil.”

 

"Fuck," is the breathy curse Judal manages underneath his breath, and he nearly scrambles to obey, setting his knees as far apart as he can, no matter how his thighs quiver and twitch with each slide and grind of Aladdin's cock against him. He huffs into the sheets, burying his face down into them with a whine. "Just… just put it in, you're not gonna hurt me." 

 

Aladdin grins, and he rubs the head of his cock up and down the cleft, gliding over the tight little hole. “Yeah, but you like it when I talk and tease you, right? When I say that I’m going to put it in so deep you’re going to have trouble breathing, but I know that someone greedy like you is going to want the whole thing anyway, right?”

 

There's something to be said about being _teased,_ because god, it's a rare day that he and Sinbad can even get a few words of it in before they're fucking. Now, it just makes his cock harder--makes him pant and writhe like a cat in heat as he wriggles back, pressing his cheek to the sheets as he _tries_ to look over his shoulder while he pleads. "That's… not fair though," Judal pants out, eyes fluttering as the head of Aladdin's cock catches against his hole, and god, he _knows_ already how big it is, how hard it was to wrap his lips around it, so the thought of it stuffing him full like _this_ … "I can't… can't wait anymore, I'm so hard, _please_ \--"

 

Aladdin’s breath hitches, and his hips jut forward involuntarily, cock throbbing as he does. “I’m glad I already came in your mouth,” he says frankly, really enjoying himself now that he knows how much Judal likes this. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to wait. You know, my memory isn’t as good as it used to be--I forget what kind of noises you make.” He tugs on an earring with his teeth again, murmuring, “Will you scream when I fuck you? Or cry? Or just kind of wiggle around and ask me for more?”

 

" _Alaaddin_ \--" It's a _wail_ now, high and desperate, and Judal thinks he probably _is_ crying now, with how his breath hiccups and catches so much. It _hurts_ , being this hard, being so _close_ to being fucked and just not having Aladdin's cock in him yet, and god, he's going to come all over himself even before Aladdin puts it in him. "Please please please I'll do whatever you want just put it in _please_ \--" 

 

That’s probably enough, Aladdin decides. Judal has been very well-behaved, and his moans and pleas are making him so hard his head pounds. “You don’t have to do anything,” he breathes, and uses one hand to guide his cock in, the other to pull back on Judal’s hips. “All you have to do is take it. Oh--that’s perfect,” he gasps, looking down as the thick blunt head disappears into Judal’s body.

 

Judal _groans_ , the sound low and breathless and _relieved_ , and his hips twitch back, following Aladdin's pull all too eagerly. "God," he huffs into the sheets, biting them as his nails flex in, and he wriggles his way backward, mouth falling open at the slick, wide stretch of it, that aching _fullness_ that he craves. "J-just like that, fuck me--"

 

“You like it just like that, right?” Aladdin asks, eyes too bright, hands grabbing too tightly, dragging Judal back hard, the lunge of his body forward shoving him down to the bed. “You like it when I make you feel really, really full, right?”

 

He drives forward, tangling a hand in Judal’s hair and pulling back, biting down his neck. “You want to tell me how much you like it, don’t you? You want me to grab you and hold you down and make you scream?”

 

Judal is so _tight_ , squeezing around him like a vice, almost too tight to feel good, but Aladdin can’t help but love that extra edge to it.

 

Judal _sobs_ rather than screams, though, never mind how it breaks into ragged, breathless little keens with each hard thrust that shoves his face into the sheets before having it hauled up again. The yank to his hair brings tears to his eyes, and he pants out a sharp breath, his hands clawing into the bed as if that will somehow _help_ , just as his legs spread as wide as they can--it never _helps_.

 

" _Please_ \--" Ah, he can't breathe. Can't breathe, can't _think_ from how deep Aladdin is inside of him, stretching him wide and making him moan and writhe back onto his cock. "You feel so good inside me, I can't--I just--" 

 

Judal is so pretty, and Aladdin can tell he’s just on the edge of pleasure and pain, just on the verge of this being some of the best sex he’s ever had and _not really fun anymore_. He slides a hand down, curling it around Judal’s cock as he slams in, body tingling with every thrust, little urgent grunts coming from him as he moves faster and faster. “You must need to finish so bad,” he mutters, hips pounding a rough staccato rhythm. “Come on, be messy all over me.”

 

Judal is _pretty sure_ that he passes out.

 

At some point, at least. He knows he's a sobbing mess when he comes, spilling over Aladdin's hand barely after he touches it, twitching and squirming and collapsing like some worthless, boneless thing. He can't help it, when he's wound so tight and then suddenly _not_ , and he sniffs and huffs and moans into the sheets, rubbing his face down into them until his vision blurs and he _really_ doesn't think of anything for a few moments, only to drift back in to Aladdin still inside of him, still so hard, and _god_ , does he ache.

 

Aladdin tries to be gentle when he comes. He can’t help the way he clutches at Judal, dragging him close as he cries out softly, burying his face in Judal’s hair when he finally lets go. Judal feels good in his arms, all wriggly and keening, and Aladdin holds him still, arms tense until they finally both stop trembling.

 

Very carefully, he eases himself out, turning Judal onto his side to cuddle up behind him. “You’re really good at that, too,” he says quietly, once he has his voice back.

 

Judal flops back against him, his breathing ragged still, and ah, his body feels like _mush_. "So are _you_ ," he hoarsely manages, butting his head up underneath Aladdin's chin. "I haven't had sex that good in ... awhile. Ah, don't tell Sinbad that."

 

Aladdin tightens his arms, pressing a kiss to Judal’s head, then another because it’s fun. If there’s one thing he knows he’s world class at, it’s cuddling. “I don’t mind. I’m glad you had fun.”

 

"Understatement." Ahh, he's not moving _ever_. Judal snuggles back against him, shutting his eyes. "I can call a servant in a bit, if you want a bath. Probably should, before you talk to Sinbad… otherwise you're gonna reek of me." 

 

Aladdin nuzzles against Judal’s hair. “In a bit,” he agrees, with something not unlike a yawn. He laughs quietly, self-deprecatingly. “I thought I was all caught up on sleep, but I guess you wore me out again. You’re _really_ fun to do that with.”

 

"So nap again. Catch up on sleep while you can, at least." _If Balbadd's as awful as you say, then a few hours isn't going to change much of anything._

 

Aladdin considers protesting, but Judal _is_ really nice to cuddle with, and he _is_ tired. Besides, even if Sinbad says no, if he can catch up on sleep and food while he’s here and go back with his reserves all caught up, well, that’s worth the trip, right?

 

Sure.

 

Aladdin tucks his head down, letting his eyes slide shut. “Mmkay. I hope...while I’m here...we can do that again…” he murmurs, dropping off to sleep.

 


	15. Chapter 15

Ah, it's hot.

 

That's one thing about Sindria that never changes--it's _hot_ , and the ocean breeze does little on particularly humid days. Ja'far tries not to think about the sweat beading on his forehead, nor does he try to fathom how Sinbad can _stand it_ , even if he's half-naked (mostly naked, honestly) and working underneath the heavy, hot sun. 

 

"Your Majesty." Honestly, he doesn't _want_ to attract that much attention. The citizens tend to think his presence brings bad news as of late, and Ja'far isn't sure if this is good or bad, at the end of the day. "If you have a moment?" 

 

Sinbad remembers when he’d be relieved, or simply glad to see Ja’far. Now, it’s always something urgent that needs _him_ , and that’s never good. He hides that as well as he can, handing the bushel of root vegetables to a man working alongside him. “Take care of these for me, will you? Akim over there has turnip soup on the brain tonight--or at least he should, if he wants to catch Fatima’s eye.”

 

Amid a chorus of laughter and blushes from the young couple in question, Sinbad slips out, trying not to betray the sudden tension building behind his eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asks quietly, steering Ja’far away from the field.

 

"Nothing--yet," Ja'far is quick to amend, and it's sheer habit that makes him raise his sleeve to scrub at a smudge of dirt that smears over Sinbad's cheek. "But it might be something. We have an unexpected guest-- _Aladdin_ , no less."

 

Sinbad starts to lean into the touch--a simple gesture of care, affection, in such a time that he needs it so much--and freezes. “Aladdin? Alone?”

 

"Alone," Ja'far confirms, withdrawing his hand with a sigh. "And to be honest, he looked rather worse for wear. I made sure he was fed and put to bed, and he's been sleeping ever since."

 

Sinbad listens, and extrapolates. He notices the lines in Ja’far’s face--does the man know that Sinbad can tell from the color of his cheeks whether he’s eaten today? Ah well, there are a few turnips in his pocket. _He_ can certainly go hungry a night without hurting anyone. 

 

He steers Ja’far back towards the palace, making sure to smile and greet the people, looking for all the world like they’re out on one of the evening strolls he used to take. “Thoughts?”

 

"… Probably something to do with Alibaba," Ja'far slowly concludes, wiping the sweat from his own brow with a sigh. "I daresay Aladdin would want to trouble us otherwise, he's such a good boy. I can only assume that Balbadd must have reached a point beyond Alibaba's control, or something similar to that." 

 

Sinbad lets out a snort. “From what I’ve gathered, it was never _within_ his control, by his own will. Little idiot. None of Abbas’s sons are anything like him.”

 

_What would you have done, old friend? He was your chosen heir; would you have chosen the same way again, knowing war was coming?_

 

"Well, regardless, I can't think of another reason Aladdin would be here… Judal seemed quite taken with him," Ja'far dryly adds. "Perhaps he'll wheedle more information out of him."

 

Something about the phrasing makes Sinbad think of years ago, of finding Aladdin nestled comfortingly between Judal’s thighs, of Judal’s blushing face at being caught. “Perhaps,” he murmurs. “Maybe they have Magi things to discuss.” He flicks his eyes sideways, looking for a reaction. “If he _is_ here to ask for aid?”

 

Ja'far's expression twists wry. "Depends on the kind of aid, now doesn't it?" he archly replies. "Last we heard, Balbadd was occupied by the Kou Empire. What are _we_ to do about that?"

 

Sinbad sighs through his nose. There’s never a break, these days, from the scheming and planning. Even when he’s picking turnips with the people, there’s still a constant barrage in his mind of what moves will be made next. “I doubt they’d be fool enough to ask for us to invade and overthrow the Kou Empire. They must know how thin we’re spread ourselves. If it weren’t for Judal…”

 

He doesn’t need to say it.

 

"I'm well aware." _And even that is still barely enough_. "It must be something else… mmn, maybe he just wants you to give Alibaba a motivational speech or something. The poor boy could probably use one." 

 

“Knowing Aladdin, I wouldn’t be surprised.” He snorts. “He’s not getting the kind I got from his father, that’s for damned sure.”

 

"… I think we all know Aladdin's choice in kings is… questionable," Ja'far tiredly sighs. "Nevertheless, let's try and keep an open mind--for Aladdin's sake, at the very least." 

 

If there’s one thing Sinbad knows, it’s how to bargain. “I’ll keep an open mind and make sure he’s fed if you eat something tonight.” He produces a handful of turnips, dangling them in what he hopes is an enticing fashion. “Too small for the stews, but a handful should be a decent meal, eh?”

 

Ja'far stares at him, entirely put out. "I can live on tea. You never complain when I do so for a week when writing up large reports, why is now any different?" 

 

“Because back then I could still get a handful when I grabbed your thighs. Come on, eat with your king. I’ll even cook them myself,” he adds hopefully.

 

"You probably still can," Ja'far mutters, smoothing his robes self-consciously. " _You_ eat, you're doing actual physical labor all day. I'm pushing papers, it's different." 

 

“Eat with me,” Sinbad urges again, tugging Ja’far back to the palace. “Do I have to make it a royal decree? You know I think better when I don’t eat alone.”

 

"I…" Ja'far heaves a sigh in defeat. "Fine. But don't you dare try to bargain on whether or not Aladdin gets to eat again--I'll personally sneak his meals to him if you do, you know." 

 

Sinbad brightens immediately, some of the stress fading from around his eyes. “I wouldn’t think of it,” he promises, and indeed, he hadn’t. “Whether Sindria can do anything for Balbadd or not, I have no intention of sending him back without a full belly and a pack for the road besides.”

 

"Good. Then let us hope it isn't anything terribly difficult for us to help with, and we can send him back with more than just that." _And maybe Judal has been another degree of useful for a change, and found out what I didn't want to ask right away._

 

Dinner isn’t exactly fancy, but Sinbad manages a credible turnip mash, topped with the chopped-up greens. There’s even enough for two decently-sized bowls of it, though he tries to eat slow to make it last, drinking quite a lot of water along with the meal. “I haven’t cooked for anyone in years,” he says with a grin, digging around with the flat of his knife. “And back then all they cared about was whether it would kill them or not. Any good?”

 

Sinbad is sort of cute, Ja'far will give him that. "It's good," he says, though most things would be, when one has skipped a day and a half's worth of meals--not that he'll say _that_ , because it's also good on its own merits. "I was serious when I said Judal seemed quite taken with Aladdin, you know," he adds with a tilt of his head. "I'm fairly certain _half_ of his lunch went to Aladdin instead--he even analyzed the peaches one by one." 

 

_Good_ is about all one can ever expect in the way of honest praise from Ja’far for cooking, and Sinbad takes it gratefully. “Aladdin saved his life,” he points out. “Saved his magic, at least, and that’s worth more to him. He’s been worried, what with all the news stories about Balbadd.”

 

"… And if Judal decides Balbadd is something that should be your priority because of that?" Ja'far poses.

 

Sinbad takes a scoop of mash, chews half, and dabs a bit on Ja’far’s nose. “Then he will be very disappointed. If Balbadd were one of my kingdoms it would be another matter, but I doubt Alibaba is smart enough in that way to simply give me his country.”

 

That's a relief, at least. Ja'far wrinkles his nose, swiping it off with a thumb before licking it off. _Stop playing with your food_ is on the tip of his tongue, but he lets it slide away for now. "I'm going to hold you to that, you know."

 

Sinbad gives him a smile, only a little strained around the edges. “I have no doubt that both you and I will do as we see fit, in whatever circumstance presents itself.” He stands, stretching slowly. “Let him sleep as long as he can. When he wakes, let me know. I know a barge that’s meant to bring in some fruit by the seaway today, I’ll go pick it up myself.”

 

"Spoiling your guests as always, my king," Ja'far drawls, sighing a little nonetheless. "I will let you know, assuming Judal doesn't find you first."

 

Sinbad offers him a kiss on the cheek as he leaves, not-so-casually pushing over the half-full bowl. “Everyone knows where to find me. I’m wherever the trouble is.”

 

Ja'far has half the mind to push it back, but that's an unnecessary argument right now. "Or where the swooning women are, pick one." 

 

~~

 

Judal doesn't _want_ to slink out of bed while Aladdin is still sleeping. Given the choice, he'd probably lounge her all day. Aladdin is comfortable and warm and a good sleeping partner, all things that Judal considers very, very nice, and so it's with a long, weary sigh that he finally forces himself up, quietly slipping out. 

 

Bathed, dressed again (ah, shoot--forgot to leave the other clothes with Aladdin; whatever, just means more sex later), and _nicely_ at that, Judal peeks his head into Sinbad's office via large, open window, his braid dangling in the slow breeze as he lingers there for the sparsest of moments. "You're not _too_ busy, are you?" _Look, I'm tryiiiing to be good and not interrupt you._ Never mind that he'd probably come in on his own a second later, anyway.

 

Sinbad stretches out in his chair, joints popping a bit more than they had ten years ago, but ah, that’s the slow inevitable progression of life, he supposes. Ja’far certainly reminds him of it often enough.

 

He musters up a smile he hopes isn’t too tired, extending a hand and beckoning to the Magi. “Come sit with me. I have time for a break.”

 

Judal eagerly jumps inside, floating half a pace before his feet hit the ground and he trots his way over, hands laced behind his back. "You're actually doing _work_ ," he teases, stepping close and nuzzling up behind Sinbad's ear, an arm draping over his shoulders. "And you aren't tied to the chair, that's new." 

 

“Preparing for the inevitable,” Sinbad says with a smile, reaching up to tug on Judal’s braid, then turning his head for a kiss. “It was a good day in the fields, I can try and take some of the pressure off the clerks.”

 

Ah, that's a little twinge of guilt. What were _you_ doing all day, Judal? _Rolling around in a soft bed with another Magi. Oops._ "You'll turn into a workaholic, just like Freckles," he sighs, and he arranges himself on the arm of Sinbad's chair, leaning close. "You should take a break in a bit at least, and say hi to Aladdin. " 

 

Sinbad nods, stroking a thumb over Judal’s cheek, then trailing down to trace over a purpling bruise. “I hope he wasn’t _too_ rough with you. I could take that as an act of war.”

 

Judal grimaces. Probably, jewelry to properly cover those up would have been a good idea. "He _wasn't_ ," he protests instead, reaching up to grasp at Sinbad's wrist, tugging his hand up to his lips to brush them over its knuckles. " _You're_ a dozen times worse. I mean better," he quickly amends, flushing hot. "I mean--you know what I mean, I like it when you throw me into things and stuff." 

 

Sinbad blinks, a bit taken aback at the sudden denial. “I know you do,” he assures Judal, turning to gather the Magi into his lap, nuzzling behind his ear. “You didn’t think I’d be angry, did you? It’s just Aladdin.”

 

_… Aladdin, who was a lot more fun in bed today than you've been in months_.

 

Judal huffs into Sinbad's neck, burying his face there as he wriggles his way into the other man's lap. "Just making sure. He's pretty stressed out, you know, so I figured the least he could do is enjoy himself while he's here…"

 

“I’d be stressed out too, if I’d come from Balbadd.” Hell, he _is_ stressed out, to the point of more sleepless nights in a row than he’d had since living on the road, and it just gets worse when he sees the people looking at him with their eyes full of trust. But...today has been a good day, with more of a harvest than he’d thought likely to get, the people’s faith in him only reinforced by the luck of being present on today of all days. 

 

He strokes Judal’s hair softly, feeling a twinge of guilt for not coming to his bed much in the last month. “I’m glad someone is taking care of you,” he says quietly. “Things will get better soon, I’m sure. Just stay with me, all right?”

 

Judal lifts his head, perplexed. "Why would I leave? I'm your Magi, don't be an idiot." He shifts, settling to better straddle Sinbad's lap, draping his arms over the back of his chair as he leans in close, rubbing their noses together. "I think he wants to head back in the next few days. You should let him tell you about what's going on, before he leaves." 

 

And here it is, the reason Judal had floated in through his window, the briefing Sinbad’s been waiting for since he’d heard the two had run off together. It doesn’t stop him from nuzzling against Judal, running his hands down the Magi’s back to pull him close, but he does ask, “Oh? Did he tell you what he wants, by any chance?”

 

"Weeelll, a little bit." Judal flops forward against Sinbad's chest, parting his lips to absently tug upon one earring. "He really wants Alibaba to be king, you know… but he's an idiot, and won't step up already. Still set on that idea of a 'republic' or something, I dunno. At any rate, I know he'd really appreciate it if you could talk to Alibaba, and maybe _convince_ him…"

 

Sinbad snorts, hands sliding down to squeeze Judal’s ass. “There’s nothing more dangerous than an idealist leader of a starving country. How is Aladdin, by the way? The state of Balbadd’s Magi could give us insight into the fate of the country.”

 

_That's not saying yes._ Judal wriggles closer, huffing out a soft, hot breath against Sinbad's neck. "Worried, but otherwise fine. He just wants best for his country, that's it." 

 

“And you?” Sinbad pulls back a few inches, just enough to look into Judal’s eyes. “Are you thinking about what’s best for your country? Or about your friend?”

 

"It could help Sindria!" Judal immediately protests. 

 

It could, that’s for sure. Sinbad can think of a few ways, but plenty it could go poorly, too. “Oh? How so?”

 

"Well--" Ahh, why does he have to go into specifics? "For one, you'd have _another_ Magi indebted to you." 

 

Sinbad grins, tweaking Judal’s nose. “In case you were wondering, I’m very satisfied with the Magi I have. Not to mention that given the state of Balbadd, Aladdin will be quite busy for some time no matter what happens. Try again.”

 

Judal pouts. Why does this feel like a pop quiz of sorts? Unfair. "… If Balbadd was friendly with us again, at least that would be _one_ route that trade could go through?" 

 

Sinbad leans back, raising his eyebrows. “Are you sure this is what’s best for your country, and not just because you want to help your friend?”

 

"Why are you asking me that again? It's a good idea, it's not like we have barely any open trade right now and Balbadd City's a _port_ city so it would be really useful!" Judal knows he's on the edge of whining at this point. "It's not like he's asking you to go in and mess with the Kou Empire… just… talk to Alibaba a bit." 

 

Sinbad sighs, resting a hand absently on Judal’s thigh. “I’ll talk to Aladdin, see if I can figure out how much growing up Alibaba’s done. It’s not worth infiltrating heavily occupied territory to give a pep talk to someone who’s still a child.”

 

Okay. That's a better response. "As long as you talk to Aladdin about it," he grumbles, burying his face back into Sinbad's neck. "You don't have to ask _me_ twenty questions, geez." 

 

Sinbad grins, pulling Judal close, stroking his back slowly. The smell of him reminds Sinbad that they haven’t had _nearly_ enough time together lately, and he closes his eyes, enjoying the closeness. “Just trying to learn as much as I can before I talk to him. Hey...it’s fine if you want to spend time with Aladdin before he goes, but after that, will you come back to my bed?”

 

"… That's a dumb question." Judal parts his lips to gently bite the curve of Sinbad's shoulder. "Even if you're a stupid king, you should know by now you're my favorite. Why wouldn't I come back? Hell, I'll be there right now if you want me to be." _Assuming you won't literally eat me alive._

 

Sinbad rubs his thumb over pale skin that had been a too-deep bruise, remembering too well why he’d asked Judal to start staying in his own room in the first place. “I haven’t been as good to you lately as I should have,” he says softly. “Maybe when I come back from Balbadd, things will change.” _Damn, I’m already talking like I’ve decided to go._

 

"I can go with you." Judal tugs Sinbad's hand up from his neck, pressing a kiss to the palm of it before nuzzling his face against it. "Besides, you've been fine. It's not like I don't keep busy even without you to harass--Freckles sees to that." 

 

At the thought of Judal without the Kou Empire’s reach again, within _Al-Sarmen_ ’s reach again, Sinbad’s grip tightens, pulling the young man closer. “You,” he says seriously, “are going to stay here where you’ll be _safe_. It’s hardly my first time undercover in a hostile country. You’re far too recognizable.”

 

"But…" Judal sighs, butting his head into Sinbad's shoulder. "I still wanna be able to help. I mean, if you're gonna be gone and all…"

 

Sinbad sighs. “Keeping Sindria safe _is_ a help. The people need to see we have a Magi on our side. If they know you and Ja’far are around, they won’t feel abandoned.”

 

"Wait. You wouldn't bring Ja'far with you?" Judal's head tilts. "Isn't this kind of thing like… what he _does_ , though?"

 

Sinbad gives him an appraising look, then a slow smile. “You’re smarter than most people think, aren’t you?” he asks carefully, then adds, “But I can’t bring him. We made a promise a long time ago that Sindria would always have one of us running it.”

 

The compliment is nice, but… "You can't go _alone_ , though. I really will go with you if you don't bring him." 

 

Something warm flutters in Sinbad’s chest. It’s stupid, and he should really leave Judal behind for a host of reasons, but… He leans forward, resting his forehead against Judal’s. “Thank you. I always feel better with you at my side.”

 

"Good," he mumbles, even as his face colors slightly. "I'll definitely go with you, then. And anyway, I wanted to correct the nicknames people apparently have for me."

 

“Nicknames?” Sinbad’s brow furrows. If they’re a laughingstock somewhere and he hasn’t heard about it, that could be difficult for Sindria’s credibility. “What kind of nicknames?”

 

Pouting again, Judal flops forward with an unhappy little sigh. "Okay, well, the White Oracle one isn't _so_ bad, I guess, even though it's weird. But the other one… Aladdin says they don't say it in a _bad_ way, just--" He huffs. 

 

Sinbad relaxes, amused now. He certainly hasn’t heard any nicknames in years, not since Judal had stopped killing Sindrians and started erecting massive barriers to keep out invading forces. But for Judal to be so put out over something… “Come on,” he teases. “What do they call you? Is it dirty?”

 

"Not _really_ , but it's _weird._ " Another sigh. "They call me the 'White Queen.' _Apparently_ because I'm pretty and always around you, but it sounds like a name they should give Ja'far or something."

 

Somehow, with reserves of self-control he’d never known he possessed, Sinbad manages not to laugh. “Ah. Well, it could be worse. And really, if people noticed Ja’far so much as to give him a nickname, he’d be very put out. It helps him do his job to go unnoticed, you know.”

 

"… You're trying not to laugh, aren't you." Judal hooks a finger into an earring, giving it a tug. "I'll bite these off."

 

Sinbad does laugh then, standing to dump Judal on his back on the desk, leaning over him with mischief in his eyes. “I like it when you bite, _my queen_.”

 

"Really gross," Judal protests with a whine, though it sounds maybe a _little_ more appealing, coming from Sinbad. He splays himself out all the same, careful not to nudge at any pots of ink, though scrolls and loose papers are fair game as he wriggles. "When did I become 'white' anything, anyway… the 'Black Oracle' or even being called a Black Sun was _waaay_ cooler sounding."

 

“Since you started making my life easier instead of harder,” Sinbad points out, leaning down to nibble at Judal’s neck. He tries to remember to be _gentle_ , not to have a repeat of last time, and his hands stroke up and down Judal’s thighs. “Do they have a nickname for me?”

 

Judal sighs as he spreads his legs, reaching up to loop his hands through Sinbad's hair and lightly tug. "'The Golden King'," he answers with a smirk, and he stretches out one long leg to hook it around Sinbad's waist. "I could've thought of something better, but it wouldn't've been appropriate for kids, and they read your books, so…"

 

Sinbad laughs, pressing forward to pin Judal down against the desk, hoisting his legs up. “Glad to see that at least something from my books caught hold of the popular consciousness.”

 

He pauses, smirking. “Maybe I shouldn’t tire you out. After all, you have a guest to entertain.”

 

At that, Judal groans, wriggling within Sinbad's hold as he pouts up at him. " _You're_ not allowed to tease me, too. If you're gonna throw me on your desk, at least _do_ something about it." 

 

“Hmm…” Sinbad makes his way down, nuzzling against Judal’s stomach, lipping the piercing, nudging between his thighs. “I don’t know...maybe I’ve just decided to be one of those men who gets jealous.”

 

"So do something about _that_ ," Judal sighs, raking his fingers back through Sinbad's hair as a little shiver runs up his spine. "Mark me up and make him know I'm yours."

 

“Now, that wouldn’t be very _kingly_ of me, would it?” Sinbad murmurs, hooking his fingers in the string of Judal’s pants and easing it downward. “After all, isn’t it said that the good king knows his guests are fed before he sups? Maybe he hasn’t eaten his fill of you.”

 

"… To be fair," Judal purrs, unable to stop himself from grinning, "I don't think he'd _care_ even if you _did_ mark me up. If he wants to eat his fill, he's gonna do it either way."

 

Sinbad’s eyes light up, even as he flicks his tongue out, ghosting over the head of Judal’s cock. “I’m not sure...maybe we should put that to the test. Maybe I should lay you out like this in front of him and see if he wants to share.”

 

Ah.

 

That _shouldn't_ go straight to his cock as much as it does. His hips twitch up, his fingers twisting tighter into Sinbad's hair, and Judal barely swallows back the little whimper that threatens to escape. "Fuck," he shakily manages. Both of them at once--ah, god, no, no use thinking about something that won't really happen.

 

It’s a dark, satisfied chuckle that Sinbad lets out, dragging his tongue up the underside of Judal’s cock before wrapping his hand around it, stroking as he swirls his tongue around the head. “You like that idea, I think,” he murmurs. “How would you want us, both at once? One of us in your mouth?”

 

Sinbad isn't going to _let_ him stop thinking about it, is he? Judal shudders, sagging back into the desk as his toes curl with every slide of Sinbad's tongue. "… Both at once," he breathlessly admits, squeezing his eyes shut when the mental image becomes too strong, the _ache_ all too easy to imagine. That's just not _fair_. 

 

Sinbad raises an eyebrow, slicking a finger in his mouth before sliding it down to tease at Judal’s hole, then press inside. He knows Judal’s body well after all this time, and even if he hadn’t known, he can _tell_ that he’s been fucked recently. “Is he big enough that it would hurt, both of us inside here? Sometimes it hurts you just taking me.”

 

That makes his voice break on a whimper, and he _squirms_ , shivering as he presses himself down onto Sinbad's hand. "He's big," Judal sighs, toes curling at the memory. "N-not as big as you… but still… it'd probably hurt. Don't care, though." 

 

“Slut,” Sinbad murmurs affectionately, fastening his mouth to the inside of one thigh, sucking and biting enough to make Judal tremble. “What if,” he says casually, adding another finger, “he was behind you and watching right now?”

 

His thighs splay _wider_ at that, teeth sinking into his lower lip at the stretch of that second finger. It's not enough-- _nothing_ really is, not unless Sinbad's cock is buried in him to the hilt--but it feels good all the same, and makes him wriggle and squirm and sigh. "Then he should just get over here already and put it in in me--god, _both of you,"_ Judal groans, letting his head loll back. "Is this a conspiracy to tease me until I just can't _stand it?_ "

 

Sinbad grins, mouthing hot over the head of Judal’s cock, blunt fingernails dragging over his thighs. “You told me I was too quick, last time,” he reminds Judal, grabbing a pot of oil from a drawer, soon shoving three slick fingers inside him. “I’m making up for it now. Besides, you’re putting on a good show.”

 

A warm body urges Judal up from behind, lips brushing over his ear. “He’s right,” Aladdin says, hands gentle and firm on his waist. “You _do_ look good.”

 

Judal is certain that he squeaks, the sudden jerk of tension making Sinbad's fingers seem that much _bigger_ inside of him, and he pants out a hot, ragged breath, eyes wide as he twists to look back at Aladdin. "I--ah--um--" Far from embarrassed, _way_ closer to too aroused to breathe, and oh god, Aladdin's been watching him, probably listening to the things he and Sinbad were just _talking_ about, and… Judal's gaze flickers back to Sinbad, just shy of nervous. "It's… it's okay, right?" Even if Sinbad has never been jealous, this is still a little different. 

 

Sinbad’s eyes are dark and hooded, and he bends down to spread Judal’s thighs wider, trailing his tongue down. “I don’t know. Is it okay? Or were you just all talk?”

 

Aladdin leans forward, hands running up Judal’s chest as he hooks his chin over Judal’s shoulder. “Do you really want it like that?” he asks, voice low, excited. “Can you…”

 

“I bet he can take it,” Sinbad murmurs. “If he wants it enough.”

 

"I want it." Judal's voice cracks a little, painfully overeager, and god, painfully _hard_ , for that matter, his breath too-fast and his eyes too-bright. Common sense tells him that _Sinbad_ is too much, and leaves him feeling like a broken thing on the best of days, but ah, to hell with it, he's never been one for common sense, anyway. "Really, really want it," he begs, twisting his head back to nuzzle his face into Aladdin's neck, his thighs quivering underneath Sinbad's hands. "I'll be good, so please--"

 

Even Sinbad can feel it, the pulse and throb of the universe around them when the two Magi are so close, nuzzling against each other, entwined around each other. It’s odd; he’d thought that _seeing_ it, he’d be jealous, but there’s nothing but amusement, interest, curiosity, arousal. Aladdin could no more steal Judal from him than he could steal the moon, nor would he try. 

 

It’s a good thing he has such a big desk. He climbs onto it now between Judal’s legs, slicking his cock with the oil before handing it over Judal’s shoulder to Aladdin, trying to reconcile his memories of the laughing little boy with the lean, eager man spooning up behind his lover. “Legs around my waist,” he urges. Even if he’s only tried this with women, the principles hold true. “Once you’re used to me, ask him _nicely_.”

 

Aladdin’s eyes flash at that. Definitely not a little boy anymore, Sinbad decides.

 

There's no helping the little shivers and tremors that go through him, or the breathy, eager little noises that he lets out when he wriggles himself close to Sinbad, winding his legs around him and pawing at his shoulders. Already, he feels as pathetically weak as any kitten, and ah, god, he _knows_ it's just going to get worse (or better, is perhaps far more correct). 

 

"Put it in already," he huffily begs, a hand reaching down to drag his fingers over the slick length of Sinbad's cock. That's enough of a reminder of how _big_ he is, and his body twinges and shudders in anticipation. 

 

“As my queen orders,” Sinbad teases, and before Judal can protest, he pushes in, the thick head pressing through the resistance until it slides inside, slick and hot and wet with oil. Sinbad’s hands are on his thighs, grabbing and squeezing, mouth on Judal’s neck, and Aladdin’s teeth are on his ear, hands toying and playing with his nipples, the boy’s hardening cock rubbing gently against his lower back.

 

He _already_ can't breathe. 

 

Judal's mouth falls open at the stretch, the hot, tense slide of it that always makes his breath hiccup and catch, always makes him squirm and nearly sob. He never quite gets used to being stuffed so full, and Judal likes it that way, likes the way it always takes a few ragged, heaving breaths to focus on taking all of Sinbad, and god, it's not much easier when he has Aladdin behind him, making him wish he had left those nipple piercings in once and for all.

 

His fingers scratch into the wood of Sinbad's desk, head lolling back into Aladdin's shoulder. He has to wonder, with Aladdin pressed against him like that, if he can feel Sinbad's cock when it's inside of him. _That_ makes him shudder hard, and he squirms his way down the last few inches, panting at the _fullness_ , the way his legs shake and the way he just can't quite catch his breath. "Ah… god…" Judal swallows hard, his eyes squeezing shut. "Aladdin… j-just… go ahead already, want you in me, so _please_ \--"

 

It’s a strange feeling, someone else’s cock bumping, pressing against his, and Sinbad can’t help but pant, thrusting in hard once just to take the edge off (it doesn’t work) before pulling most of the way out, leaving just the head inside to stretch him. He reaches down, gripping hold of Aladdin’s cock--who knows if the boy has done anything like this before?--and guiding him to the right place.

 

“Sinbad has really big hands,” Aladdin murmurs, then pauses, pressing against that tight ring of muscle, feeling Judal shiver. “It’s... _really_ full already, but...if you really want it…”

 

If it weren’t for the oil, he’d never have made it. As it is, it’s a stretch, a slow, tight one that makes both the men fucking Judal see stars, grabbing and squeezing any part of him they can reach.

 

Judal _sobs_. It's a broken, desperate noise, and every muscle in his body seems to protest, running hard shivers up his spine and leaving his legs trembling so hard that it _hurts_. Even if Aladdin isn't quite as big as Sinbad--god, it's a _good_ thing he isn't, because the stretch of him pushing inside is _far_ too much, and Judal whimpers and whines and thrashes, thighs quivering and bunching and his breath a heaving, ragged thing as he sinks down onto both of them, stretched so wide and stuffed so _full_ that he isn't even sure it's _good_ anymore.

 

A reflexive twitch of his hips forward grinds his still achingly, painfully hard cock forward and against Sinbad's stomach, and oh, that answers _that_ question.

 

A heavy, ragged exhale of breath brings him to sag backwards, leaning his weight back into Aladdin even as he makes a needy grab for Sinbad's hair. _Good, it's good, really good, just fuck me I need it please_ \--

 

It’s hard to actually _fuck_ Judal, it’s so much of a stretch. The motions of their bodies are too hard, too much of a strain until Sinbad takes control, lifting Judal up and setting him down. That sets the pace, Aladdin’s slick cock sliding against his, taking turns to shove into the indescribably tight heat of Judal’s body. 

 

Sinbad can’t think beyond how good it feels, but Aladdin is murmuring, nuzzling into Judal’s ear as he says, “I don’t think anyone but you could take this much cock, you know.”

 

Judal whines at that, his hips jerking, back arching even though _that_ makes him gasp and groan and cry out, vision streaking wet with tears. He doesn't know _how_ he's taking this much--he's never felt so full, never felt like he was about to _break_ like this, but he still can't stop himself from squirming into the hard, relentless shoves of their hips, no more than he can stop from sobbing or whimpering or sagging back or forward when it's just _too much_ and it feels like every muscle in his body just wants to _give up_.

 

There's no way he'll be able to last for very long, Judal _knows_ that. Maybe it's better, because when he comes, twisting and writhing and shaking and sobbing, gripping at Sinbad's shoulders and letting his head loll back against Aladdin's, he feels like a limp, broken doll, tension flooding from him and making it _easier_ , no matter how he still shakes. He wants to tell them to _use him_ , but oh, he knows they will without his encouragement, and that's the best part.

 

Sinbad grunts, teeth clenching at the sudden tight clench of Judal’s body around them, hands tightening on Judal’s waist as he thrashes wildly. It’s a struggle not to come, to keep his thrusts hard and deliberate, filling the younger man with every rough shove of his hips, every drag down of his hands.

 

He’s about to lose himself when he catches Aladdin’s eyes over Judal’s shoulder--and passing between them, silent and unintentional, a spark of a _hint_ of challenge.

 

Sinbad pulls himself back from the edge, if anything, taking Judal harder, the slap of his hips against Judal’s a sharp counter point to the soft noises Aladdin is making on the other side, their hands running over Judal, sometimes touching just to part again, a hot mouth on his neck and another on his shoulder. _I can keep this up all day, boy_ , Sinbad thinks.

 

Aladdin just smiles at him. He turns to nuzzle into Judal’s ear, whispering, “Tell me when you can’t take anymore.”

 

When could he ever take it in the first place? Judal just moans, turning his head aside to bury it into Aladdin's neck, little broken sobs torn from his throat with each hard slap of Sinbad's hips. _Hurts hurts hurts oh god don't stop--_

 

As much as he doesn't want it to _stop_ , as much as he loves, _loves_ the feeling of being so over-full, to the point that it _hurts_ and aches and leaves him shivering, he wants to feel them both claim him, mark him as intimately as anything, and he whimpers, forcing his eyes open to better plead. "W…want… want to feel you come inside of me--" God, he's going to be _dripping._ His muscles twitch and tremble at that thought alone. 

 

Any stupid, prideful machismo vanishes at the broken whine coming out of Judal’s mouth, at the obscene plea, and Sinbad bites down hard on Judal’s shoulder, slamming in as deep as he can as he comes.

 

It’s _strange_ , hot and wet and sudden when Aladdin spills over his cock, both of them filling Judal so full it leaks out around their cocks. Sinbad pants heavily against Judal’s neck, sweat trickling down his spine, noticing with chagrin that he’d done it again, left far too many bruises and bite marks and they’ll only look worse tomorrow, especially with how sweet Aladdin looks cuddling up behind Judal’s back. 

 

Slowly, Sinbad pulls out, wincing as he does, flopping down into his chair. The sight on top of the desk is one of the more lewd things he’s ever seen, and damned if he doesn’t want to enjoy it. “It looks good on you,” he murmurs, content.

 

Judal sags backward, boneless and unable to think beyond Aladdin being warm and comfortable, beyond how his body sings and aches and how he _still_ feels like he can't close his legs properly. "… What does?" he finally rasps, turning his head to the side to watch Sinbad, half-lidded. "The way you always mark me up?" His smile is shaky as he manages to thumb over a fingerprint shaped bruise already darkening over one hip. "No one would _ever_ think I belong to anyone else."

 

Sinbad grimaces at that. “I did try to be more gentle this time. I just…” _You’re supposed to be the one I can lose myself with. Maybe the person I’ve become lately doesn’t have the ability to do that with anyone._

 

“Hey, Judal, does it hurt?” Aladdin hooks his chin on Judal’s shoulder, hands smoothing down over his sides, and white rukh gathers around his fingers “I could fix you. I’ve gotten really good at that.”

 

"Why are you _apologizing?_ It's good, it's good," Judal sighs, leaning back against Aladdin with a little shiver. "No fixing. I like the marks, and maybe I _deserve_ a chance to stay in bed tomorrow."

 

There’s an indelible softness in Sinbad’s eyes when he looks at the younger man, grateful, pleased. “I’ll bring you nice things to eat,” he promises, “and other presents. Let me spoil you all day.”

 

"Well, if you _insist_." Like hell he'd ever protest that. "Mmn, but you two need to _talk_ about things," Judal sighs with a languid, albeit _careful_ stretch. "Then you can carry me back to your bedroom and let me curl up in your bed, it's waaay softer than mine." 

 

Sinbad stands, tugging his robes back into place and gently lifting Judal out of Aladdin’s arms. “I’ll be right back,” he promises, and Aladdin nods shakily. 

 

“You wore the boy out,” Sinbad remarks, amused. “He can’t be used to bedding someone like you.”

 

"It's a rukh thing, a rukh thing," Judal laughs, twirling a finger in the air as if Sinbad can really see the rukh that gather there immediately. "Magi _probably_ aren't supposed to have sex with one another. It makes a looot of rukh gather and makes it really excited. Ah, but it's fun, though." 

 

It’s nice, really nice, to see Judal laughing and relaxed and _happy_ for a change. Sinbad supposes he owes Aladdin something, at least for that much. “You told me once that the rukh like it when we’re together,” he says thoughtfully. “Are Aladdin and Alibaba…”

 

"I asked the same thing, but nope, apparently not… except for once or something, and they didn't even really do anything," Judal sighs, rolling his eyes. "Alibaba's an idiot. I'd roll around with Aladdin all day--uh, if I didn't have you, I mean," he adds sheepishly.

 

Sinbad has to laugh at that, nudging the door open with his hip and lowering Judal down to the bed. “I don’t mind. From what I saw he’s plenty of fun, for a man. Ah--you know what I mean.” _For a man that doesn’t want my cock._

 

"Mm," Judal agrees, sinking back into the bed with a content, pleased sound. "We should do that again," he sighs, stretching out as he grins wickedly. "Maybe next time, you can have my mouth while he's fucking me, hmm? Or the other way around, I don't care." 

 

“Slut,” Sinbad says affectionately, kneeling down for long enough to kiss him. “You just like being the center of everyone’s attention, hmm? All those hands on you, all those cocks in you?”

 

"Yep," is the shamelessly cheerful response, complete with a little bite to Sinbad's lower lip as he's kissed. "It's really, really fun. Ahhh, and when it's the two of you, it's the best. I did good, too, didn't I? I told you I would." 

 

Sinbad cups his face, holding him there for another kiss, followed by a soft one to his forehead. “You did perfect. I’ve never bedded anyone that could have done it that well.” He smiles, tugging on a loose lock of hair. “Might be weird, but I was proud of you, wanted to show you off.”

 

"Not weird," Judal sighs out, eyes lidding as he tips his head forward to nuzzle against Sinbad's hand. "I like it when you show me off. It makes me feel… like you still really want me here." 

 

Sinbad’s smile widens, and he gets an arm around Judal, hugging him suddenly close. “And here I thought you were smarter than everyone gave you credit for,” he says quietly, holding him tight enough to hear his heartbeat. “You think I promise things like forever lightly?”

 

Judal promptly buries his face into Sinbad's shoulder with a huff. "Well, _no_ , but--still. It's nice to hear it again and everything…" _Especially when it feels like nothing I do helps that much lately._

 

“Well, you’re going to have lots of opportunities to get told how great you are soon,” Sinbad promises. It feels good just to lean into Judal like this, feeling the warmth and weight of him, so solid against everything bad that’s happened. “Assuming I like what I hear from Aladdin, of course.”

 

"Good," is the sigh to follow as Judal rubs his cheek once more against Sinbad's shoulder before giving him a nudge away. "Then go talk to him, and tell me what you think afterwards."

 

~~

 

“I can’t do it.”

 

Sinbad leans heavily on the doorframe, not drunk, but wanting to be. His eyes haven’t adjusted yet to the gloom of the windowless, candlelit room, so he blinks owlishly, trusting that Ja’far is in his office. Otherwise, he’s speaking to himself. 

 

“I _want_ to help the kid. But damn, I thought Alibaba was sitting in a hovel somewhere, dithering back and forth about whether or not to step up and be a man. His own people _imprisoned_ him, Ja’far.”

 

At that, Ja'far tries very hard not to spit out his tea. It's a _good_ blend, too, so there's no way he wants it on the floor rather than down his throat. "Wait-- _what?_ " He turns, staring at Sinbad from where he's stretching up to slide a scroll into place while balancing his cup in one hand simultaneously. "What in the world did he do to make them _imprison him?_ " _And for that matter, why did he let it happen?_ Ahhh, he sort of wants to slap the boy on principle. 

 

Sinbad rubs at the bridge of his nose, attempting unsuccessfully to stave off a headache. “Apparently, his people want him as a king so badly that just before the Kou Empire invaded, they swept into his house and carried him to the Palace by force, expecting him to be grateful at the show of support. When he refused them again, they turned into a mob. Aladdin was the only reason they didn’t kill him outright. They threw him into a jail cell, and have kept his whereabouts secret from the Kou Empire, at least.”

 

"… I need to sit down," Ja'far mutters, his own hand lifting to the bridge of his nose to mirror Sinbad as he promptly does so upon the nearest stool. "How in the world do you refuse being a king when _everyone wants you to be?_ "

 

Eyes finally adjusting to the dark of the room, Sinbad walks inside, closing the door behind him and leaning back against it. “Because in his _infinite_ wisdom, the great Alibaba Saluja has come to the decision that the only good form of government is republicanism. Yes, even-- _especially_ \--when the people are screaming for a king to lead them.”

 

He sighs. “It’s all very well to derive power from the consent of the governed, but these people have no idea how to run a democracy. They have no system, no parliament, no senate, no constitution. Forcing them to lead themselves is like turning a flock of sheep loose into the wild and assuming they’ll decide it’s _reasonable_ to go back in the pen, even _knowing_ there are wolves about.”

 

"If you aren't going, shall I in order to merely slap him across the face?" It's sarcasm, of course, though Ja'far is sorely tempted. "What did you tell Aladdin, then?" 

 

Sinbad snorts. “I’m tempted to say yes. I…” He worries at his lip, sinking a few inches down the door. “I don’t want to leave the boy to die, but this is _ridiculous_. Aladdin seems convinced that if Alibaba decided to take his throne they’d release him, but…” He sighs. “I told him I’d have to consult my advisors.”

 

"You'd be walking into a--excuse me, but a shitstorm," Ja'far bluntly says. "If they are keeping him hidden from the Kou Empire, that implies they are there even more heavily than we thought. If you were to go…" He sighs, put out. " _Honestly_ , I'd insist on going with you. But leaving Sindria at a time like this…"

 

“No.” Sinbad’s tone is final. “Whether I go or not, I’ll never leave Sindria without both of us again. Judal wants to go with me, though I have no idea how I’d disguise him.”

 

"Cut his hair off," Ja'far impassively says as he takes a sip of tea. 

 

“Last time I suggested that, he made it clear that he’d cut my cock off. Next idea.”

 

"Make him come up with _magic_ to make it look like he's cut his hair off." Ja'far shrugs. "Who else has a braid like that, honestly? With that gone, you can wrap him up in enough silk and make him look like your wife. Or your favorite dancer," he adds with a roll of his eyes.

 

Sinbad rubs his temples with both hands. “I’ll think of something. _If_ I go. Honestly, if I _could_ somehow kick them out of Balbadd...it could help. Any chance to poke them in the eye, I suppose.”

 

"Well, if you go, and you _are_ taking your Magi, you might as well use him." Ja'far hums thoughtfully. "If you go and Alibaba is still insistent upon not being king, then take Balbadd for yourself for now. What else is there to do, really? You can't let it fall to Kou."

 

The smile Sinbad gives him is wry. “That _would_ be the plan. No reason to infiltrate personally unless I’m going to rally the people. And frankly, if someone is going to blunt the sword of the Empire, better Balbadd than Sindria.” It’s cold, but Ja’far will understand. He always does.

 

"Good." Ja'far sighs all the same, giving a little shake of his head. "I _do_ wish I could go with you--never mind that I know it isn't going to happen," he adds before Sinbad can protest. "Especially if you end up having to infiltrate within the Kou Empire's forces there…"

 

Sinbad moves, coming up behind Ja’far to rub his shoulders. “It won’t be the first time. I still have friends in Balbadd that I can run to if things go pear-shaped, if it would be imprudent to fight.”

 

"… You sound like you have made up your mind," Ja'far wryly points out, sighing and rolling his shoulders underneath the touch. 

 

Sinbad pauses for a moment. “Hmm. If you can think of a reason for me not to go that doesn’t contain the words could, would, or possibly, that _you_ think is a valid reason, I’ll stay here.”

 

"Sindria will mourn your absence, particularly of the sort that requires your robes coming off. But I suppose that is rather marginal…"

 

The backrub stops. “Marginal?”

 

"Well, you know, the effect is lost if they see it too often. Perhaps a small lapse in time will be good for morale when you return." He frowns, turning his head to _look_ at Sinbad. "Don't start something you don't intend to finish, it's bad manners."

 

Immediately, Sinbad’s hands start working again. “You will, of course, miss me.”

 

"I… ahh… will mourn every moment of your absence as well, my king." He flops forward after a bit, having the sense to set his teacup upon the nearest shelf before he does. 

 

“And that absence will make your heart grow fonder, yes?” Maybe he’ll even be able to coax Ja’far into his bed upon his return, if he doesn’t manage to turn everything to a great deal _more_ stress. Silver linings, that’s the idea.

 

"I'm impressed. It took you more than three minutes to move towards a proposition this time," Ja'far dryly replies.

 

Ah well, it was worth a shot. “Can’t blame a man for trying. Unless you do.” Sinbad works his thumbs in silence for a moment before saying quietly, “If you want me to stop asking, I will.”

 

"I don't, and it's fine." Ja'far sighs into his knees as his head lolls forward. "It will be forever a mystery to me how you can think about sex in the midst of everything, but to each his own, I suppose."

 

That’s at least a bit of a relief, and Sinbad trails his fingers over the muscles of Ja’far’s shoulderblades. “When I’m around someone so beautiful, I can’t really help it. Like you can’t help but be hungry around food.”

 

"You flatter me far too much, but thank you." Sinbad's hands _do_ feel nice, and ahh, it's tempting to give in… "If you are leaving, you will probably be doing so soon. I should start the preparations."

 

Sinbad leans forward, giving his advisor a quick peck on the cheek and a pat on the shoulder. “Go on, then. Try and keep it as quiet as you can--ah, think of some other reason, something that won’t worry the people. Tell them--tell them I went to sea to capture a massive monster, that’ll make them cheer. I’ll see if I can’t stir something up from the depths on my way back.”

 

"Make Judal do it, he's good for that at least," Ja'far sighs, stretching out with a content sound leaving his throat. "Trust me, Your Majesty; I will use utmost discretion in handling this… mess." 

 

~~

 

Aladdin is ready to go.

 

Aladdin _wants_ to go.

 

He’s fretted most of the time he’s been here, thinking about Alibaba locked up in chains, probably starving, though they’d been good enough to feed him from time to time, with only the company of his convictions to keep him warm in that dank cold place at night. He’s fretted about the citizens and their pinched faces, about which of the officials Alibaba had been training to act as an impromptu parliament might have been sacrificed to the Kou Empire’s inexorable invasion. He’s fretted himself ill, and he knows it would be better if he could just go _back_.

 

It’s just hard to know that it might be another several years before he gets a hug from Ja’far again.

 

He’s eighteen now, a man grown by anyone’s standards. It had been easy last time, because Ja’far had seemed so sturdy, so unchangeable, so solidly _safe_. Now that Aladdin has seen Sindria, knows it’s nearly as vulnerable as Balbadd and that ten people are all that separate it from the same fate, it’s a thousand times harder to leave.

 

So he stops by Ja’far’s office early in the morning of their departure, hands sore from all the braiding he’d done to try and disguise Judal’s distinctive hair, and knocks. “Um...I hope I’m not disturbing you…it’s Aladdin, by the way…”

 

"Ah, no, come in!"

 

Even as he says that, Ja'far is the one to open the door, giving a shake of his head at the sight of Aladdin in his office doorway. "Shouldn't you be getting ready to leave? Though honestly, if I could keep you here another week at the very least…" he murmurs, heaving a sigh. 

 

Despite how much more powerful he is now, despite being so much more secure in who he is and what he wants from life, there are times that Aladdin misses being a child. He scratches the back of his neck, uncertain. “Um...I know it’s different now that we’re both men.” _Ask first_ , he reminds himself. _That’s the key, Alibaba says._ “Is it okay if I give you a hug?”

 

Ja'far's expression twists, wry and amused. "You didn't ask the first time, you know."

 

“Sorry,” Aladdin says sheepishly, ducking his head. “I was really excited to see you and...I forgot to ask. I’ve been working on it! Especially with girls!”

 

"With girls is one thing," Ja'far agrees, and he stretches up on tiptoe, firmly wrapping his arms around Aladdin's neck to pull him down. "But with me, it's something else. You don't ever need to ask." He sighs, giving the boy's hair a gentle stroke. "I _missed you_ , you know." 

 

Aladdin buries his face in Ja’far’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around Ja’far’s back. “Missed you too. A lot,” he mumbles into the fabric of his robes. “Balbadd doesn’t have a Ja’far. Nowhere does, not even close.”

 

"Then once everything is settled there--and it _will be_ ," he firmly says, giving Aladdin's neck a squeeze, "you should come visit more. Or I'll come visit you, as much as I am able. Just don't let there be years between this time--I worried, and it seems like I was right to." 

 

“I promise,” Aladdin agrees eagerly. “Honestly, I didn’t mean for it to be so long, there was just so much to do, and once I found Alibaba we had to get back to Balbadd, and things were so _bad_ there...I’m really okay. I’m better off than most people there.”

 

"… That's not a very high standard," Ja'far chides as he rocks back onto his heels, giving Aladdin's braid a gentle tug. "You have a lot on your plate, even for a Magi. You did the right thing in asking for help."

 

Aladdin plops himself down on the floor near Ja’far’s chair, looking up, a bit chagrined. “Alibaba wanted me to ask for different help. He wanted Sinbad to send food to the people, but...what is that going to help? The Kou Empire isn’t going to let them have it anyway. They starved them before. They--” He bites off the tirade, tired with it and with the constant struggle. “Kings don’t _listen_.”

 

"They do if you prove them wrong once or twice," is the dry response, and Ja'far drops a hand down onto Aladdin's head, gently ruffling his hair. "Alibaba… well, he's always been quite stubborn. Hopefully, this will teach him to listen to you more." 

 

“Hey...you give Sinbad advice a lot, right?” Aladdin asks, looking up hopefully. “How do you know you’re right?”

 

"I don't, not always," Ja'far admits. "But after awhile… it's easier to figure out what the right decision is. And sometimes, Sinbad still disagrees with me. Sometimes he's right. Most of the time, between the two of us, we come to the right answer."

 

Aladdin butts his head against Ja’far’s hand. “I’ve heard a lot of stories from Sindria about Judal. The last time I was here...I didn’t know if it would go right, but I did it anyway. Do...do _you_ think I did the right thing?”

 

"… Sindria would not be the same place it is today without the way Judal is now," Ja'far simply replies, and he twines his fingers through Aladdin's hair to gently stroke. "So yes. I think you did the right thing. And see, I was wrong, wasn't I?" _Though I rather loathe to admit it at times._

 

“I don’t think you were wrong,” Aladdin says cheerfully, resting his cheek against Ja’far’s thigh. “You can’t see the future, though. And neither can I, or anyone, so we all just try our best, right?”

 

"It's all we can do," Ja'far agrees, and he sighs, giving Aladdin's hair another affectionate ruffle. "You'll be fine. If Alibaba listens to Sinbad, so will he. Put your foot down, you're his Magi. He needs to listen to you once in awhile."

 

“Mm!” Aladdin smiles up at Ja’far, reaching up to squeeze his hand. “Hey, Ja’far...who takes care of you, when you take care of Sinbad?”

 

Children--ah, men, really--shouldn't be this cute. "I take care of myself well enough," he says wryly. "And when I can't, Sinbad returns the favor."

 

Aladdin notices the thin lines, the starkness of expression that hadn’t been there five years ago, and privately thinks that Sinbad doesn’t do a very good job. “Did you ever want to have a family?”

 

"I have enough of one to take care of already, don't you think? And you're one of my favorites. Don't tell anyone though, I'm supposed to be neutral," he teases.

 

Aladdin butts his head against Ja’far’s thigh, smile a little abashed. “You take really good care of everyone,” he agrees. “And I know everyone loves you but…”

 

He laughs, shrugging. “Well, I never had a family, so I guess it’s really good that you can have one in your own way!”

 

"Don't be silly." Ja'far reaches down, cupping Aladdin's face in his hands. "You know I've always considered you part of my family--maybe you aren't my own flesh and blood, but you certainly can't say you've never had one. If I had a son, I'd want him to be like you."

 

Aladdin opens his mouth, then closes it again, eyes suddenly bright and stinging. _Is this a normal feeling?_ he wonders, the sudden warmth in him almost overwhelming, stopping him from speaking. Instead of saying anything, he just smiles, feeling suddenly more at ease than he has in long, hard years.

 

"… So with that in mind, stay safe in Balbadd," Ja'far gently reiterates. "Sin will watch out for you as well, but I think we all know his focus is easily swayed."

 

"Sinbad will do what he thinks is best for Sindria first," Aladdin says with a little shrug. "That's his most important thing, and when he does that, he's good at helping people, too. That's why I thought it would be okay to ask him for help, because helping Balbadd _is_ good for Sindria."

 

"Are you sure you are a Magi and not a political advisor?"

 

The smile Aladdin gives him this time is just a bit too cheery, the brightness a little false. "Everyone has to do their fair share, you know? I just.. I just want what's best for my friends."

 

"… It'd be good, once in awhile, to think about what's good for yourself, too--even if that isn't right now." A gentle tug, and Ja'far eases Aladdin up off the floor to better pull him forward and press his lips to his forehead. "Don't make me worry about you too much."

 

Aladdin grabs Ja’far in another hug, even if he has to bend down a bit so he doesn’t pick the older man up. He kind of wants to say something, to confess that he’s a heck of a _lot_ less invincible than everyone seems to think he is and Ja’far is the only person who ever seems to get that, but that would just make him worry more. Instead, he just says quietly, “When everything’s over, I want you to come see the country we’re going to build. You’re going to be really proud, and it’s going to be because of you, a lot of it.”

 

"I don't know about _that_ , but I will be honored to see your king's country once all is said and done." Ja'far gives him another squeeze before reaching around to tug his braid. "Go and get ready to leave, then. You have a lot of work to do--ah, and make sure you eat well before you go, I'm a little annoyed to see you this thin."

 

“I’ll be fat before too long, I promise!” Aladdin reassures him, and because Ja’far _did_ say he never needed to ask, gives him another hug before bounding to the exit. “I’ll take good care of Sinbad for you in Balbadd, okay? So you don’t have to worry about if he’ll come back.”

 

"Good; he needs all the help he can get," Ja'far wryly replies, sparing Aladdin a little wave of his sleeve. _Though hopefully, this isn't an awful mistake, and you won't have to lift a finger_.


	16. Chapter 16

Foreign princesses are fun. Especially in Balbadd, where there's nothing to do, and it's boring as hell, even if he's supposed to be _grateful_  that Kouen gave it to him in hopes of properly whipping it into shape.

 

That's the idea, at any rate. Pretty girls from other nations are usually easy, too, swayed by a powerful prince of the Kou Empire, even if he's third in line for the throne (and doesn't want it, besides). Ahh, but none of that matters as long as he can get them through the door, into his bed for a night (or two) and there's occasionally another bastard involved somewhere down the line, which Kouen doesn't seem to mind, because it just gives him a little bit more leverage over their country in the end… 

 

This, however, is different.

 

The princess is beautiful, to be sure--all dark hair and dark eyes and wrapped in silk and with hair in so many braids that Kouha can't even count them. Even with the silk coverings on her face, Kouha _knows_  she has to be a pretty thing, long and lean and supple and sort of asking to be shoved around. 

 

So he thinks, until his djinn stirs and whispers and says things like _long time no see, Magi._

 

_Magi?_

 

Kouha has to squint. He doesn't see it at first, but when he _does_ , he could kick himself, could do a damned _flip_  with how excited he is, and lets his servants deal with the 'princess' and 'her' bodyguards as he grabs a fistful of Koumei's robes, hauling him over out of sight. 

 

"All of them. Put your ability on them, _now_."

 

 

Koumei blinks slowly. It’s still _early_ as far as he’s concerned, well before evening. The heat makes him lethargic, and Balbadd is worse than Kou, worse than anywhere he’s reluctantly traveled. Being awake (marginally) only at night has helped, but that has its limits, and usually those limits are ‘whenever Kouha needs me to be awake.’

 

It looks like now is one of those times.

 

It takes little effort to extend his power over the little delegation, casting a gentle net over the hall until it catches, no more than a spark to him, nothing at all to the people targeted. The strength flows into him at once, just a drip at first, but it’ll be a trickle before too long.

 

And then, the flood.

 

Koumei takes a seat out of the throne room, staying out of sight. The less these men expect, the better.

 

 

No matter how Kouha smiles and wheedles and reaches out to take his hand and kiss it like a properly charming prince, Judal _knows better._

 

Honestly, it doesn't make him any less nervous to have Sinbad and Aladdin at his side. In the end, it wouldn't _matter_ , if Kouha decided to do something. Ugh, but this was a mistake--the first invitation dropped in their direction, and Judal had _known_  it was a mistake. Yet here they are, within Balbadd's rather dilapidated palace, surrounded by Kou Empire on all sides, and ahh, they'd probably still need to strong-arm their way out, if necessary.

 

_Would you rather run?_  Sinbad had asked it in all seriousness. Judal's starting to think it might have been the wiser choice, what with how Kouha's gaze lingers upon him for just a bit too long, and Judal nervously shifts, hoping it's not an invitation to his bedroom (it probably is). 

 

"Now what would a foreign princess have to do in Balbadd?"

 

The food looks good at least, though Judal's appetite is less than normal. There's a spike of paranoia, too. Kouha isn't above poisoning or drugging or anything like that. "Merely passing through," he murmurs after unclipping his veil, and he can _feel_  Kouha's appraising ( _appreciative,_ gross) gaze upon him. "Balbadd is safer than most, these days." 

 

"Isn't that a shame? The Kou Empire has _so_  much cleaning up to do," Kouha sighs, leaning his chin forward into one hand. Damn, but he _is_  an attractive bastard. A shame he's always been _weird_ , and Judal is rather glad he's never been terribly subjected to Kouha's odd little preferences that rear their head behind shut doors.

 

 

Sinbad hates small talk.

 

He’s always hated it, and it’s even worse now that he’s not even the one participating in it. It’s a damned shame Judal’s so much harder to hide; a man who walks like a man can blend into most crowds of men, but Judal’s difficult to hide as a man, dicey as a woman, and impossible as a commoner. He’s too dynamic, too much larger than life, and all Sinbad can do is sit at the banquet table, keeping his eyes averted from anyone important like a good soldier. He’d almost been a soldier, once.

 

Balbadd is _draining_. He hadn’t noticed it too much when they’d just been walking around, seeing the frightful, abject poverty. Aladdin’s face had changed the second they’d touched the ground, and even in the palace he looks wan and drawn, no matter that he’s as covered up as Sinbad. He hadn’t noticed it much then, but he does now. Every passing second seems like an eternity, and it’s hard not to just grab Judal and toss him over his shoulder, taking them both firmly _home_. 

 

He tips a sweet roll from his plate onto Judal’s. It will be nice, when this is all over, to stop feeling guilty. He’d intended to spoil the life out of Judal, back when they’d first sworn to each other. He’d probably made some promises about wanting for nothing, no doubt. And here they are, eating a modest feast in someone else’s country, while people starve to death in the streets. 

 

 

"I suppose you have a prince waiting for you, back in your home country?" 

 

"Yes, my lord."

 

"Ahh, pity. I have an older brother that could use a lovely woman such as yourself." 

 

If he's talking about Koumei--he's definitely talking about Koumei--then what a joke. Judal finds it difficult not to roll his eyes. "I'm flattered, my lord." He can _hear_  Kouha's djinn, and wishes he couldn't. _Shut up, or he'll hear you, too._

 

"You know," Kouha murmurs, and he leans across the table, forwardly plucking a few of the braids Judal's hair has been wound into. He's close enough that Judal can smell him, all heady spice of the Kou Empire, with hands that are far from any soft, pampered prince's, and Judal swallows, quietly remembering that breathing is a good thing. "I've only seen a few people with hair like this. Never as long as yours, though… they usually come from far, far east. Didn't you come from the south, though?"

 

"We were traveling from that way, yes--"

 

"Sindria?" Kouha's lips slowly curve. "There aren't many people allowed in and out of Sindria, these days."

 

 

Sinbad does not shift in his seat, because that would be terribly obvious, and he’s at least better than that. He _does_ go a bit still, even as Aladdin _does_ start. The boy’s never been much good at lying, Sinbad thinks with an inward groan. 

 

At least he has an excuse to interrupt. Sinbad turns a steely glare in Kouha’s direction, speaking in short, clipped tones that aren’t exactly an accent, but hide his own just as well. “You are not to touch Milady. No one is to touch Milady.”

 

 

Kouha's smile widens, even as his hand slides away and he sinks back. "Ahhh, my apologies! She's just so lovely, I couldn't help myself. How long does it take you to get your hair like that?"

 

Judal attempts a wavering smile of his own. "Quite awhile, my lord." 

 

"When I was younger, I used to braid all the hair of my servants. Not like _that_ , though, of course. Are Sindrian peaches still as tasteless as their tacky king?" 

 

He's not spitting out his wine, definitely not. "...I wouldn't know, my lord--"

 

"Really? Because those earrings of yours are definitely Sindrian make, there's a way their jewelers cut facets like no one else, and getting them off of the island is quite difficult. Ah, you look pale," Kouha cheerfully continues, head resting on his hands. "Relax. If you have some forbidden lover in Sindria, I'd _love_  to hear that story. I won't tell."

 

 

The boy knows.

 

Sinbad is almost certain of it-- _almost_ , and if it were only _him_ , he’d be more than willing to mince pretty words all day, to laugh and jest at another kingdom in disguise, both of them pretending ignorance.

 

This is too dangerous.

 

He stands, glad that the indelicate jabs at the honor of his ‘milady’ give him a reason to play at offense, and Aladdin scrambles to his feet a moment later. “Milady will not be talked to in such a manner. We are grateful for your hospitality, and now we will take our leave. Milady, please.”

 

 

Judal eagerly rises, his heart pounding and leaping into his throat. Kouha is faster, though, reaching out a hand to snatch Judal by the wrist, dragging him down and forward in one sharp pull. 

 

" _Sit_ ," is the cheerful order. "You were the Kou Empire's dog once, weren't you? I'm sure you can remember a command that simple." 

 

Shit. Judal is sure the color drains from his face in an instant, judging by how gleefully, obscenely pleased Kouha looks. "Kouha--"

 

"Oh, good. We've dropped the formalities, then!" He releases Judal's wrist as he stands with a stretch. "It's been a loooong time, Judal. My, you've gotten pretty. Can't say the same for your king, though; I can see your grey hairs from here." His eyes swivel sharply to Aladdin. "And Balbadd's Magi… interesting, that you're in with this lot, but I'll take it."

 

 

In a way, Sinbad’s glad. He can at least make a _bit_ of a scene as he casts off the robes, letting his hair spill down his back as he takes a stance between his Magi and the little brat. He can hear Aladdin spinning out of his own, landing lightly on the ground as he raises his arms, both of them watching the young prince intently. 

 

Sinbad is glad, because sneaking around is so _annoying_ when it’s not fun, when he can’t stop to run his fingers through pretty braids, or tease the end of a ruffled skirt. When it’s all tightly-wound tension, he’d rather have an unfair fight any day.

 

He raises an eyebrow now, intrigued. “We aren’t here to fight a war with your Empire,” he says, folding his arms across the broad muscle of his chest. “Just giving Aladdin an escort home. Given that you have no Magi and I have two with me, the smart thing for you to do is pretend you never saw us--unless you want to explain quite a lot of damage to your big brother dearest.”

 

In the shadows, Koumei breathes in the King’s power, sending it and the Magi’s magoi to Kouha. Really, it’s too easy. Then again, that’s the only reason he’d agreed.

 

 

"An escort home requires the king himself and his Magi?" Kouha's brows arch, his head tilting. "Interesting. Then again, my cousin came marching in here with an _army_ , so I guess that isn't terribly different, and the result was all the same, besides." 

 

Judal's brow furrows. Even the Kou Empire is fighting amongst the ranks? That doesn't sound quite right, considering how close knit they've always been, and how supportive they always were of Kouen being in charge. Except--"Your cousin--Hakuryuu?" Hakuei _wouldn't._

 

"Who else?" Kouha's eyes roll, hands dropping to his hips as he sighs. "Hooonestly, it wasn't even a fair fight. He hadn't gotten the message that I was already here. It's fine, though. I had orders to get rid of him, anyway--I'm surprised you didn't see his head on a stake when you showed up, maybe the birds already picked it clean."

 

 

The sudden surge of white-hot anger makes Sinbad take a step forward, calling on his power as his hand falls to his sword--and only at the last second does he catch the blur of blue to the side, hear Aladdin’s scream.

 

He _expects_ to see a crater-shaped hole in the floor of Alibaba’s palace that he’ll have to explain away later. He _expects_ to see Aladdin upset and aloft, maybe glowing with power, raining destruction down on the bastard who’d killed his friend.

 

He really, _really_ hadn’t expected to see Aladdin fall flat on his face. 

 

_What?_

 

Even as the boy picks himself up, Sinbad’s jewelry flares as he calls on a djinn--no time for playing games, he calls out a name and waits for the feathers, the armor.

 

Focalor doesn’t come.

 

Sinbad draws his sword in an instant, throwing his other arm out in front of Judal. “Back,” he says quietly. “Something’s very wrong.”

 

 

"But--"

 

It doesn't take Sinbad saying as much for Judal to _feel it_  already--the sheer lack of magoi within Aladdin a startling thing, to say the least. Likewise, even as he draws his wand, there's an odd _dizziness_ , or maybe it's sleepiness, and the rukh that flutters around him is sort of an odd, blurring thing, seemingly out of his reach.

 

"Ah, this escalated quickly, didn't it?" Kouha hums, broadsword plucked from the wall behind him and deftly lifted, pointed in Sinbad's direction. "Tell your Magi to behave, and perhaps we can have a fun one-on-one. Not that he's good for anything other than healing nowadays--seems to be the only way Sindria's making any money, too. How the mighty have fallen!"

 

 

Sinbad’s smile is slow, and not kind as he paces slowly to the side. He eases his robes back over his shoulders, suddenly thankful for all the physical labor he’s been doing with the people for keeping his arms strong, tossing his hair back over his shoulders. No magoi within easy reach, yes, but the power hasn’t _dimmed_. He just can’t _use_ it. His sword still has the spirit of Baal imbuing it with power, even if he can’t equip right now. 

 

He sights down the blade at the boy, even as Aladdin gets his arms around Judal, pulling him back away from the gathering storm. All Sinbad can see is his fields, his people, his city walled in away from the world because of this insolent boy and his cruel, entitled family, coming in to wreck a place where he’d once learned so much. “By all means, boy. If you want to test my strength, I _will_ oblige you.”

 

_Come at me, child. Let’s see if your skinny arms can even bear that sword._

 

 

Kouen will never believe this.

 

It makes Kouha giddy to even _think_  about it as he steps up and over the banquet table in two easy strides, casually kicking a still-full wine glass off of it to shatter and splatter over the floor. _Don't count your chickens before they hatch_  his ass--this is as good as done, with two useless Magi already under his thumb and this _king_ , useless except to point his sword. _He_ , on the other hand, thrums with it all, the high of it making his eyes blaze. "What strength?" is the sneer to follow. "Bring out one of your seven djinn that you prize so much, fight me like a true king!"

 

 

Sinbad’s eyes light up with the challenge, with the _fight_ of it all. It’s been so long since he’d been able to just swing his sword at a man with the intention of _killing_ him, and his heart races, heart pounding with the excitement. “Here, then,” he cries, stepping forward as his muscles bunch. “See how a true king looks, when he cuts you down where you stand!”

 

 

To be honest, _Ja'far_ doesn't believe it. 

 

It's the last thing he wants to hear, at the very least: urgent whispering about the capture of Sindria's king and Magi, not to mention Balbadd's own Magi being held by the Kou Empire. Such knowledge is thankfully being held tightly under wraps, and he rewards the spy generously to keep such continued silence.

 

It begs the question, however, of _dealing_  with such things.

 

Never mind how his blood boils at the thought, on at least a dozen different levels--it frightens him, in a way, though little does more so than leaving Sindria in the dead of night, sounding far more a beggar towards Drakon to _please, please, please keep their country safe_  than any advisor to its king. Still, if he doesn't leave and handle this personally, there will not _be_  a king to govern Sindria, and that is the worst thing of them all. 

 

He should have gone with Sin in the first place.

 

He's kicking himself the entire way there, making the trip in at least half the time that it normally would take a man. It's easy, traveling alone and inconspicuously, and Balbadd's walls are just as easy to infiltrate when one literally blends with the sand. 

 

The palace isn't much more difficult, especially when night falls and all of the guards are tired and chilled to the bone. 

 

Ja'far doesn't like leaving living proof of his work, and it's for that reason that the Kou Empire still doesn't _know_  of him, after all of these years. He's a clerk, a shut-in advisor at best to them, and so there is nothing prepared within Balbadd's captured palace to keep him out. There's even less within the depths of the palace, in a throne room that's sort of disgustingly familiar, where Kouha and Koumei apparently are inclined to share wine and laugh over their conquests. 

 

He's pleased, at least, to see that Kouha is still a little bruised and battered. 

 

"--should've seen his face when I told him how I'd do the same to Sindria that I did to his pretty Magi." Kouha _giggles_  as he says it, the little beast, and lifts his wine glass, fully expecting it to be topped off. "Ahh, that one is fun to play with! All of them are. Less Aladdin, though. I remember him when he was cute and tiny, why couldn't he stay that way? I'd keep him as a pet, just to play with his hair."

 

 

“I never met him back then,” Koumei responds, his own glass quietly filled by a servant for the sixth or seventh time. “I miss the way Judal was back then, though. He’s so... _tame_ , now. Boring. All doe-eyed for his _king_.” He rolls his eyes, tapping his fingernails on the edge of the glass, reaching for a grape. “Is there any way to make a Magi change kings, do you know? Oh, I forgot, did you write to En?”

 

 

"Of course I wrote En--ahhh, he's going to be so happy," Kouha giggles, pleasantly tipsy as he leans to the side, dropping his head against Koumei's shoulder. "I dunno if there's a way to make a Magi change kings… I think you have to kill the one they've chosen already, maybe? That shouldn't be too hard, though I know En wants to poke at Sinbad himself first, so I have to play _kind of_  nice until then."

 

 

Koumei’s hand comes up, automatically combing through Kouha’s hair, trailing along all the many little braids. “Mm, you’ve certainly been making sure they’ve all been _poked_ plenty.” Whether Kouen will approve of their little brother’s methods or not he has no idea, but it’s sure entertaining until then. 

 

 

"I doubt Kouen wants the king like _that_ \--maybe Judal, though. He got _really_  pretty." Kouha all but purrs, butting his head into Koumei's touch. "He's even prettier when he cries, you should come watch sometime."

 

Ja'far's tolerance only stretches so far. 

 

Of course, by that point, he's leaning against the back of the throne, and it takes little effort to simply duck around the side, one wire sent silently about Koumei's neck to effectively yank him aside and to the floor, pulled tight enough that breathing is a less than easy task. Kouha is more difficult--faster, without a doubt, already reaching for his sword, but Ja'far is faster, _angrier_ , and simply kicking the damned thing from Kouha's grip is easy enough, no matter how the impact rings up his leg in a sharp, annoying ache. The next wire cinches around Kouha's ankles, yanks them out from underneath him, and Ja'far is on him in an instant, blade shoved underneath his chin with a knee digging into his chest. 

 

He shakes the wire around Koumei a bit looser to reach up and yank the blood-speckled covering over his face down. "You will take me to Sinbad, or I will spill your life's blood on this palace floor, _Prince_."

 

 

Koumei’s eyes bulge wide, everything gone upside down and bloody in a second. He tries to cast his net over the man--who the hell even _is_ he??--but his vessel is too far away, hard to reach at this angle, and he can’t even _breathe_. “K-Kouha,” he wheezes, eyes darting side to side frantically. “Where--my brother--”

 

 

"Shut _up_." A sharp yank on the wire is enough pressure to cut off Koumei's air for just long enough to insure that he's quiet for as long as Ja'far needs him to be. "Well?" 

 

Kouha hisses like a cat, though it comes out more as a breathless wheeze, what with Ja'far's weight against him so solidly in all of the _worst_  places. "Sindria's king sending petty assassins? That's _classy_ \--"

 

The blade cuts in, spilling a trickle of blood down Kouha's throat, and his Adam's apple bobs hard. "You can lead me, or I will leave you here to bleed while I find him myself." 

 

Ja'far watches the man's gaze flicker to Koumei for the briefest of seconds before flicking back. "He's not dead?"

 

"Not yet." 

 

Kouha sucks in a slow breath. "Let me up."

 

Ja'far _does_ take a sick amount of pleasure in digging his blade into Kouha's back for the duration of the walk, and he also enjoys the grumblings about how the wires binding his arms are far, far too tight. Ja'far _really_  couldn't care less. If he had his way, this one would already be dead, but perhaps Sinbad would enjoy the honor more. 

 

" _This_  is how you keep your prisoners of war?" There's quite a bit of satisfaction in kicking Kouha to his knees as Ja'far one-handedly flips the keys into his grasp, turning them in the cell door. "Sin. Wake up already."

 

 

_That_ voice could rouse Sinbad from the deepest slumber, let alone the fitful, pained half-doze he’s been able to get in here. He tries to swallow, but his throat is to dry, and he coughs, a spatter of blood hitting the cold stone floor. Slowly, every movement a labor, he pushes himself up to a sitting position, no matter how that makes him wince.

 

A quick look shows him Kouha, still alive, and one arm free of a wire. Koumei is equally preoccupied, then. Blessed Ja’far. Perfect Ja’far. 

 

Sinbad only wishes he had relief left to spare. 

 

“Coming,” he mumbles, broken fingernails scrabbling at the wall as he claws his way to standing. 

 

 

"I didn't stay _stand up_. Honestly…" Ja'far exhales a long, put out sigh as he all but hitches Kouha to another cell door like a horse, never mind his protests, and steps away and into the cell to offer Sinbad his hand. "Come on now. If you're going to stand, do so as a proper king." He shoots a dark look over his shoulder. "Where are the Magi?"

 

Kouha blinks. "What Magi?" 

 

It's fun, surprising these Kou _idiots_ , especially when it ends with a blade buried into Kouha's shoulder. " _Where?"_

 

Kouha hisses and snarls through his wincing and squirming. "Opposite cellblock--god damn it, who the hell _are you_ \--" 

 

"That's poisoned, by the way," Ja'far deadpans, turning his attention back to Sinbad. "You are welcome to wait here, Your Majesty, while I retrieve them."

 

 

“The other brother,” Sinbad grinds out, leaning back against the wall, eyes half-closed. “He’s got--some kind of binding on us.” He can’t focus his eyes, can’t breathe properly, and he’s pretty sure only some of that is from the cracked ribs and other injuries. “Them too. Don’t know if--it’s worse for them, I doubt--they can even…”

 

At this moment he’s not sure _he_ can even, and he starts to sink back down to the ground, catching himself at the last moment. He rolls his head sideways to look at Kouha, spitting blood into the prince’s face. “How do you like Sindria’s clerks, huh? I bet in Kou they just...file paper and…”

 

He collapses to the floor, eyes rolling back into his head.

 

 

"Damn it." It's going to be one of _those_  kinds of nights, isn't it? 

 

First things first--making sure Sinbad isn't dead. Done and done, and with that, making sure he _won't_  die immediately is high up on the list. Also done. Koumei is next, and terribly easy to persuade once the threat of his brother's death--now sweating and shivering from the poison--is dangled in front of his nose. If nothing else, Ja'far supposes he can commend the Kou Empire on their familial loyalty. 

 

With that so-called binding properly released, the next task is both Magi. Sinbad is going to have to wait-- _has_  to wait, unfortunately, because it's one thing to slip into an enemy stronghold by himself, another thing to take it over entirely or even _leave_  with three dead weights, so _something_  has to give. Ja'far feels his heart sink at the sight of Judal, a shivering, bruised ball at best, wide-eyed and trembling at the simple sound of the cell door opening. 

 

"Judal. It's me."

 

There's a hint of disbelief in his expression. "… Ja'far?" 

 

"Yes. Can you stand?" 

 

"… Dunno."

 

"You're going to have to," Ja'far simply says, and holds out his hand. "Sinbad needs you." 

 

Judal shrinks immediately, and Ja'far sort of wants to shake him. "I can't. I don't--"

 

"That prince's binding on you was released. I know you're hungry and tired and hurt, but Sinbad is worse, and he _needs you_  to heal him, at least enough to be functional in this place. Now stand up." 

 

Judal bites his lip, nodding, and ah, it makes Ja'far angry all over again to see how he wobbles upon dragging himself to his feet, fine silks torn to shreds and hair in mussed disarray. "Good," he exhales, steadying Judal all for a moment before giving him a gentle push down the narrow hall. "Go to the end, then take a left. All of the guards have been taken care of, no one will hurt you. See what you can do for Sinbad, and I'll be there in a minute." 

 

He's not sure if he can trust Judal to stay conscious for even that long, but at least the kid is _trying_ , and so Ja'far _has_  to trust that much as he moves further down. "Aladdin." Admittedly, this is what he's dreaded the most. 

 

 

At the sound of the voice, Aladdin sits bolt upright, scrubbing the torn fabric of his sleeve over his eyes. _Not_ crying, he’s _not_. Relief spills over him, bright and clear and so strong he almost thinks it’s another illusion, cruel and taunting so they can watch him be excited only to yank away the promise of salvation.

 

But no, no one knows about Ja’far. That’s why trusting in Ja’far is _safe_. 

 

Aladdin uncurls himself from a ball in the corner, running to the bars separating him from Judal. “Ja’far! Over here! I--it’s me, Aladdin!” 

 

He feels naked, and it’s nothing to do with what they’ve left of his clothes. Surely, Ja’far won’t mind too much, no matter what they’d said when they cut off his hair.

 

 

He was right to dread this.

 

Ja'far sucks in a slow breath, and the key turns in the lock with fingers that shake perhaps a little too much as he shoves the door open with his hip. At least Aladdin has more of his wits about him than Sinbad and Judal combined--that's a blessing, though the sight of him _isn't_. "Aladdin--" He's just a bruise, all of him, and so it makes Ja'far wary to touch, no matter how he can't help but to reach up and cup his face. "Aladdin, how are you? Are you sure you're all right to be standing? You can rest until Judal can heal you, it's fine."

 

 

For some reason, it’s harder for Aladdin to keep his voice from wavering when he’s talking to Ja’far, when he’s finally _safe_ , than when the guards were...here. His throat closes, eyes stinging, and he shakes his head. “N-no, I want to help. I can...I can do it, some of the healing.” He blinks fast, not quite trusting himself not to fall into Ja’far’s arms if he touches the older man, arms chafing against each other for warmth. “They’re okay? Judal and Sinbad? I don’t--I couldn’t--I couldn’t see much.”

 

 

In one, easy flutter, Ja'far's cloak settles around Aladdin's shoulders, cinching firmly in place as Ja'far ties it. "Sinbad isn't good," he admits, and he steps back with a frown to look Aladdin over. He doesn't like what he sees, but it can't be helped right now. "If you can help with the healing, that's good, but more importantly, if I can leave you to watch Judal and Sinbad, then I can go and get rid of the rest of the guards and the like. It would be easier at this point if we can simply infiltrate and keep this palace as a captured stronghold with the two princes as our prisoners. Otherwise, we'll have to leave Balbadd immediately, and I'm not sure if we can get back in later."

 

 

Aladdin nods slowly, firming his shoulders--far, far easier to do now that he has something to cover him, something that feels like he could hide in it. He _won’t_ , but it feels like he could, and that’s important right now. “I’ll take care of them,” he promises, with all the solemnity of a vow. “We’ll--we’ll need to go out again, or I will. We didn’t even...find Alibaba yet.”

 

What a failure of a Magi he is, losing his king candidate, leaving him in a place like Balbadd where people did such unspeakable things to each other. “And you might not want to, uh, let me near those princes.” His voice falls to something like a whisper, hands fisting in the robe. “They killed Hakuryuu. And the things they…”

 

 

"I'll go and find Alibaba later. You will stay here, where it's safe." It isn't up for debate, quite frankly. "The princes are secured elsewhere. I know what they've done, and I feel the same. I…" 

 

There's no helping it, the compulsion to simply grab Aladdin and pull him down into a hug. It probably isn't _helping_  anything, but to hell with it. "I'm sorry that I couldn't be here sooner."

 

 

He shouldn’t take so much comfort in feeling Ja’far near, in feeling his hug. It’s childish, and weak, and Aladdin can’t really _help_ it. 

 

_Okay, just five seconds_ , he bargains with himself, and closes his eyes, sinking down against Ja’far’s shoulder and trembling like a frightened rabbit. 5...4...3...2...1…

 

He straightens up, forcing a smile and a nod. “It’s okay. I just...I’ll help you pick everything up, okay?”

 

 

"Just stay and watch them," Ja'far tells him, releasing him with a last squeeze, and he steps away with a sigh. "I'll be quick, I promise." 

 

 

Aladdin had _thought_ it would be better, being close to Judal, not being separated by bars. 

 

Now that he is, kneeling with some grimacing on Sinbad’s cell floor, he’s not so sure. “Hey,” he says softly, trying not to startle the older Magi. “Can I help? You’re better at it than me, but I can lend you some of my power.”

 

From the look of Sinbad, he needs all the help he can get.

 

 

Judal starts all the same, though his hands are already shaking, his vision blurring, and ah, what is focus when he's so tired and hungry and _everything_  hurts? "I've got him," he mumbles all the same, _determined_  to do this himself. Ja'far said Sinbad needed him. Well, like hell he can ignore that, when Sinbad has always been there for him. His gaze flickers warily sideways, first to Aladdin, then out to the hallway beyond. "Did… where did Ja'far go?" It's nerve-wracking, actually, not having the man within sight and right _there_  to protect them.

 

 

It takes Aladdin a moment to remember, but then it clicks. “He went to go take care of the rest of the guards.” He speaks slowly, carefully, as if to an injured bird. He doesn’t reach out to touch Judal, but closes his eyes, letting the first hint of his magoi that he’s felt in a long time flow out of him and over to Judal, bolstering his power. “I’m okay,” he says quietly. “I can take care of us if anything happens.”

 

 

Ah. That's good, at least.

 

All of that's good, really. Breathing is easier, his chest not quite so tight, and the flow of his own magoi doesn't stutter so much from his fingertips as he works his way through the worst of Sinbad's injuries. The more and more he goes along, though, he's not _sure_  he can do all of this--no, he has to. He _has to_ , he's Sinbad's Magi, he swore he'd do it, _all_  of it and that he wouldn't be their dog anymore--

 

Judal bites his lip as it trembles, the exhale that escapes through his nose shaky. "If you're hurt, I can get you after this," he mumbles. "I just--right now--I have to--"

 

 

Aladdin shifts on the floor, the cold stone doing nothing to numb his bruises, only making him ache. “I’m fine,” he lies again, and breathes out his magoi one more time, giving Judal as much as he can without passing out again. “After Ja’far comes back we can sleep, okay? And then when we wake up I can do you and you can do me.”

 

 

Judal's head slowly shakes. "Don't need it. I'm fine." 

 

This is going to _have_  to do. He can at least feel Sinbad breathing easier now, his pulse not quite so thready, and if he looks twice, he thinks he sees Sinbad's eyes twitch and flutter. If he _just_  had his full power, he could do everything right now, but--

 

"How is he?"

 

Judal is hard pressed not to shriek and jump, no matter if he recognizes the voice immediately. "I… good. Better," he corrects nervously. 

 

Ja'far leans over appraisingly before nodding, and Judal thinks he feels the drip of something onto his shoulder. Upon lifting a hand to wipe it away, it turns out that it's bright red. "Good enough for now. You both did well." 

 

Sinbad is _definitely_  dead weight, and Judal stares wide-eyed as Ja'far hauls him up off of the ground and over his shoulder with little more than a grunt of effort. "Let's go, both of you. We'll all share a room tonight. You two need to sleep while I keep watch." 

 

"… The rest of the palace--"

 

"Has been dealt with. All of the guards accordingly, servants if necessary, and the two princes are otherwise indisposed." Ja'far glances to Aladdin. "Can you help Judal up?"

 

 

Aladdin nods, making sure to go slow and careful. He’s seen Judal the last few days, seen him screaming and starting at the smallest touch, even if that’s something he’d rarely been granted. “Um,” he ventures, getting an arm around Judal’s waist, shoulders under one arm as he helps, “I don’t want to be ungrateful, but…”

 

He _really_ doesn’t want to, not when Ja’far has just saved his life, has saved all of their lives, but...he’s got duties, as a Magi. “I need to find Alibaba tonight. If Kou hears somehow, I don’t know what they’ll do, and if anyone finds him…”

 

_It’ll make what they did to us look like a tea party. To me,_ he amends, catching sight of Sinbad’s limp form draped somehow over Ja’far’s narrow shoulder.

 

 

Ja'far wavers at that, worrying his lower lip as he leads the way down the hall and out of the dungeons. "I don't want you going out alone, not in the shape you're in… but you have a point." God help them if Kou _does_  find out immediately, though. Taking them all by surprise is one thing--facing Kouen head on… well, even he knows his limitations. And it isn't as if he can be in two places at once, either, though he sorely wishes he could be. 

 

There's a _point_  to taking the king's chambers, never mind that he's already had to toss Kou incense out the window in spades when he did his initial sweep through of it. It takes effort to lay Sinbad down as gently as possible, and Ja'far rolls his shoulder with a grimace. There's no helping it, then. "Before you go, eat something," he sternly says, and he reaches to take Judal from Aladdin, the older Magi's head lolling as his consciousness flickers all the more. "I'm going to give you a time limit as well. If you aren't back within three hours, I _will_  come and find you. If it's something you can't do in that time frame, then you need to turn around and wait for me to help."

 

 

That’s reasonable enough, and sort of a relief, knowing that Ja’far will come looking for him. Aladdin leans forward, giving Ja’far a tiny kiss on the cheek, then touching Judal’s face gently. “Make sure he’s comfortable, okay? He had…”

 

He can’t talk about it right now, not if he’s going to go find Alibaba.

 

His legs hurt as he jogs downstairs, but Kouha and Koumei always eat well, and just what’s left over on the banquet table is more than enough to make Aladdin feel quite a bit like his old self again. He even takes care of some of the worst of his own bruising, just so he doesn’t look quite so...well, so he looks a bit more recognizable. It wouldn’t do to have Alibaba not recognize him, after all.

 

The “patriots” who had locked Alibaba up are at least smart enough that they’ve moved him, and it takes a few seconds and a pleading assurance that yes, he _wants_ Alibaba to sit on the throne before they’ll tell him where. Aladdin hurries from house to house, wrapping himself in a discarded piece of cloth to keep himself somewhat hidden, before arriving at the new location. 

 

It’s less a prison and more someone’s basement, outfitted with bars on the window and only a trapdoor, behind a stable. “It’s where we keep the horse thieves,” a man tells him with a toothless grin, and opens the trapdoor long enough to shout, “Company, Majesty! Stand back from the door or you get no supper tonight either!”

 

Aladdin wants to shout at the man, but really, he’s doing the best he can with what he thinks is right. And maybe if Alibaba _had_ taken control when he did, things would be better. Maybe not. All he can do is try to make his king a king.

 

Aladdin pads down the ladder to the basement, eyes adjusting slowly to the darkness until they spot Alibaba. He gives a tremulous smile, oddly self-conscious about his suddenly short hair. “Hi. Sorry I took so long.”

 

 

"Aladdin!!" He's a sight for sore eyes, that's for sure, and Alibaba was starting to think--okay, definitely already thought--that he had been left behind for good at this point. Alibaba shoves himself to his feet. "Geez, I was starting to worry. They keep telling me it's bad out there, but I just can't…" he trails off, suddenly _looking_  at Aladdin, and his mouth twists into a frown. "What _happened_  to you? You're--… wait, what happened to your hair?" 

 

 

It’s not really the shortness of his hair that bothers him. It’s the memory, the way he can’t help but remember every time he feels it (or the _lack_ of it) the way it had felt to have those men hold him down when he was already hurting so badly, to see the scissors and hear them laughing, the things they’d said….

 

He banishes that thought as well as he can, forcing a falsely cheery smile. “It got cut. We, uh...I brought Sinbad and Judal back with me, to Balbadd. They...we…Kouha and Koumei are here. They, uh, found us.” No use hiding what he’ll find out soon anyway. Maybe it will even help.

 

 

"What?! No one tells me anything down here!" Not that it matters. Not that he can _do_  anything--or at least, not what they're asking. Alibaba grips Aladdin's arms, probably too tightly. "Why is Kouha here? Did he… has the Kou Empire really…" he swallows. "They were supposed to wait, before they took over everything. There was a pact, you know." 

 

 

Aladdin grimaces, wriggling out of Alibaba’s hold as his hands dig into bruises. “They said the pact didn’t matter if it wasn’t signed by a king. They refused to recognize the republican government. Then…” He swallows hard. “Hakuryuu came. They killed him.” 

 

He still wants to kill them for that, even if it won’t bring his friend back.

 

 

Alibaba's blood runs cold, and his hands slide away before Aladdin can wiggle away entirely. "… But he's their own family. They wouldn't." If there's one thing he knows about the  Kou Empire, it's that they're insanely close--nothing like his own family had been.

 

 

“They were proud of it.” He can’t say the rest, about what they’d done to Hakuryuu’s _head_. He’d looked for himself, on the way to find Alibaba. “Look, I have to get you out of here. If I’m not back in like an hour, Ja’far is going to come looking for me, and Judal won’t be able to sleep if Ja’far’s not there, and Sinbad needs Judal to sleep if he’s going to get healed, so we have to _go_.”

 

 

"Wait, wait, Sinbad's hurt?" That brings  about another rising wave of panic. "And you didn't say anything about Ja'far being here. Besides, if I leave… that's telling everyone that I'm going to be king. I've heard them, they say that I'm not allowed out until I agree, and I can't just _agree_  to something like that, this country doesn't need a _king_ \--"

 

 

There’s no _time_ for this. The rukh blazes around Aladdin, swirling suddenly white, ruffling the jagged short ends of his hair. “Alibaba Saluja, you’re coming to the palace with me right now! You can come back to this hole tomorrow if you want, but I’ve had a _really hard week_ and if you don’t want to come I’ll pick you up and carry you there myself!”

 

Yeah, he’s probably spending too much time with Ja’far.

 

 

Alibaba shrinks, staring in shock as he's yelled at Aladdin for the first time in… a really long time? It was definitely a long time, yep. He nods slowly and numbly, taking a step forward as he tries not to think about how Aladdin sounds a lot like Ja'far--and ah, god, he's probably going to hear something similar in that regard from _him_ \--

 

"Okay. I'm… I'm sorry. Really sorry. I'm going."

 

 

Aladdin breathes out slowly, wincing as even that much hurts his lungs. “Okay. Good. I’ll go first, they won’t say no to me.” They hadn’t last time, either. They’d been very clear about the fact that if Aladdin had ordered it, they’d hand Alibaba over. But really, if he had to save Alibaba from his own people, what was he saving him _for_?

 

He leads the way back to the palace, jumpy at every shadow, and by the time they get inside the gates, he’s having considerable trouble putting one foot in front of the other, he’s so tired. Being hurt takes a toll, especially with the way his body is constantly trying to repair itself. “Inside,” he mutters. “Top...floor. King’s chambers.”

 

Then, he slumps over onto Alibaba’s shoulders.

 


	17. Chapter 17

The first thing Sinbad notices is the heat.

 

He’d been cold for so long, trying to keep awake and shivering constantly, that the sudden warmth upon waking is the greatest ease he could imagine--until he realizes how many of his wounds have been treated. _Magic_ , he thinks, because nothing works as well as magic but time. 

 

That means either Judal or Aladdin is still alive--and it _feels_ like Judal. He steels himself to open his eyes, not sure whether he’ll see Judal or Kouha gloating over him.

 

The sight that greets him makes him sag in relief. Ja’far, perfect Ja’far, curled into his customary little ball of sleep in the chair, one eye nearly slit open, the perfect assassin expecting danger even in sleep. “Ja’far,” he murmurs, voice still hoarse and cracked, but at least it’s working.

 

A jerk, and Ja'far rouses in a second, both eyes slitting open into the dim light of the room. Ja'far's first instinct is to check the door, the second the low-burning fire warming the room, and third finally to look at Sinbad with a long, relieved exhale. "How are you feeling?" he immediately asks, and he cranes his neck to spare a glance toward Judal as well, huddled in a tiny ball on the opposite side of the bed, little more than a lump beneath the sheets. Before he lets Sinbad answer, he unwinds from his chair enough to pour the man a glass of water, and stands to carefully hold it to Sinbad's lips.

 

A few sips of water, carefully taken so he doesn’t choke and spill all over himself--god, when was the last time he acted like such an _invalid_ \--and Sinbad clears his throat, easing himself upright. He reaches out a hand, dismayed at the state of it--that’s right, now he remembers the sound the fingers made as they broke--and looks up, giving a tired little smile. “That depends. Is everyone alive? How did you get here?”

 

"Everyone is alive." Better not to say 'fine', because that isn't wholly true. "And I killed a camel or two, how else?" Ja'far sinks back, shutting his eyes tiredly. " _Honestly_. You are getting too old for this. Are you trying to give _me_ grey hairs, too?"

 

Sinbad groans. It’s hard to deny that the crick in his back is a hell of a lot worse after all the beatings. “You’re right, you’re right.” He lays back on the pillow, letting out a long sigh. “I’m sure I used to be smarter than this.”

 

"And after I arrived, you passed out on me. I had to carry you up _two_ flights of stairs, and after making sure you were stable, getting you cleaned up was an act in and of itself--you know, Sindria's throne is _quite_ comfortable, you should learn to stay at home and get fat on it, then at least you'd weigh a bit less," Ja'far scolds as he sags back down with a huff. "What were you thinking, anyway? Helping Alibaba is one thing, but walking into Kou's stronghold?"

 

It’s tempting to just close his eyes and _enjoy_ the tirade. He’d thought, in those long dark nights after everyone had had their fun, that he’d never hear it again. Shocking, how he’d missed it. That had been the thought that twisted at his heart the most, the idea that he’d never make it back to Ja’far. “Didn’t mean to,” he says, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “They found us the day we showed up. I think the bitchy little princess’s djinn recognized Judal. Then the older one drained our power before we felt a thing.” 

 

The memory of that fight irks him still, and he scowls, reaching for the glass of water. “I beat him. Sword on sword, even though he had all our magoi. I took him down with everything I had, and the other one came up behind me and knocked me out, I think. Could have been a guard.”

 

"As usual, you always need someone at your back. One would _think_ you would become less careless with age." Ja'far sighs, pressing a hand briefly to the bridge of his nose. "Well, whatever. It's taken care of now. They're the only ones I let live--save for the servants, which were from Balbadd, not Kou, anyway. Frankly, I would like to see both princes dead, too. They've seen my face." 

 

Sinbad considers it for a moment. Then, because considering killing the princes does his aching body a world of good, he considers it again, and again. Then, he sighs. “We can’t. If you’d killed them while apprehending the castle it would be all right, but now they’re prisoners of war. Maybe I’ll be able to use them as a bargaining chip with Kouen, the brothers’ loyalty to each other is legendary.”

 

"I knew I should have let the poison go a little bit too far." Ja'far snorts, annoyed. "Well, if we leave them alive, then they know about me from here on out, which is never a good thing."

 

“Maybe Judal will recover enough to help them _forget_ ,” Sinbad suggests. “Or failing that, we could try and convince them that all of Sindria’s clerks are capable assassins waiting for their moment to reveal themselves. Wouldn’t do to let a bit of fear go to waste.”

 

"… Don't count on your Magi being terribly capable for some time." Ja'far lifts a hand, pointing to the lump on the other side of the bed. "It's probably best to bluff until they call it, with that in mind."

 

For the first time, Sinbad notices the covered lump in the sheets, and frowns, leaning forward. “Is he…” He swallows hard. He hadn’t been able to see much of anything, but he’d _heard_ plenty. “Will he be all right? What about Aladdin?”

 

"Better than you and Judal," is the short, simple reply. That isn't saying much of course, but… "And I don't know. You were there. Judal isn't interested in telling me anything, and from what I can insinuate, I can't blame him." He leans forward, voice dropping. "If he _will_ be fine, he'll be useless against the Kou family, at the very least. Kouha does… effective work, if nothing else." 

 

Sinbad grits his teeth. “You don’t have to tell me that.”

 

"I'll make them kneel at your feet before you cut their heads off with a dull blade," Ja'far bluntly says. "Just give me the word." 

 

Just the offer is enough--almost--and Sinbad reaches out a hand, slowly curling his fingers to touch the silk of Ja’far’s hair. “Thank you for coming for me. Give me a kiss.”

 

Just like that, the tension abates, and Ja'far heaves a long-suffering sigh, planting his hands on the side of the bed as he leans over the other man. "If it were just you I had to come here for, that would be one thing," he admits, eyes lidding as his lips press to the corner of Sinbad's mouth. "But it's Judal--and _Aladdin_ … I don't care if he's a Magi, he's still a _child_." 

 

The softness of lips--that’s one of the things Sinbad had thought never to feel again, and just that much of a touch _changes_ things. He relaxes, the anxiety draining out of his strained muscles. “They both are, really.” He doesn’t need to say that he’ll never forgive himself for what’s happened. Ja’far will know that already, without needing the words.

 

"… I should have come with you in the first place." Ja'far drops onto the edge of the bed, leaning down to kiss him again. "I'm sorry." 

 

“No.” It’s a knee-jerk reaction, and his hand fists in Ja’far’s tunic, no matter how it hurts to move his bones like that. The thought of any of that--of losing _Ja’far_ \--

 

It doesn’t bear thinking about. 

 

“It was...my one comfort. That you were far away from all that.”

 

"Don't be stupid," Ja'far mutters, sinking down to drop his forehead against Sinbad's shoulder. "I wouldn't have let that happen in the first place. Do you know how easy it would have been to take down that arrogant little shit of a prince with both of us? Him _and_ his brother."

 

Sinbad sighs, leaning back, resting his hand on Ja’far’s head. “We know we can destroy anyone between the two of us. But I didn’t _come_ here to fight princes, I came to knock some sense into someone who isn’t my enemy. Besides, someone has to run--hey, who did you leave on my throne?”

 

"Drakon, who else? A military minded rule is better than none," Ja'far sighs, surrendering to the urge to entirely stretch himself out next to Sinbad, albeit extremely carefully, so as not to jar any of his still-healing limbs. "Speaking of your throne--I was serious about you getting fat on your throne, by the way. Fat weighs less than muscle, so if I have to carry you again, that would be easier. Also, I would still love you even if you were fat."

 

That at least startles a laugh out of Sinbad, and he turns to nuzzle his nose into Ja’far’s hair. Surely, it’s worth his own pain to hear those kinds of words from Ja’far, even if he isn’t cruel enough to say it’s worth what had happened to the Magi. “Is that a promise I hear?”

 

"I don't know, are you going to actually plan on getting fat?" Ja'far grumbles, butting his head into Sinbad's shoulder. Ugh. Best not to think about how he's apparently inclined to embarrass himself with a number of words he'd never throw around. He really is too stressed for this.

 

_As long as you still love me._ “As long as you still carry me.”

 

"Through the desert until I died like that obnoxious camel." 

 

Sinbad drifts off to an easier sleep after that, curled around Ja’far and easy in his mind for the first time in far too long. After all, as long as he has Ja’far willing to die in the desert like a camel for him, there’s little that can disturb his rest.

 

When he finally wakes, the bone-deep aches have set in, the most annoying part of the healing process, and he groans at the light spilling through the window. “Guess I’d better go take Alibaba to task,” he mutters, knowing from the sound of Ja’far’s breathing that he’s been awake for quite a while.

 

"Are you certain you don't want me to speak to him first?" Ja'far lifts his head, eyes lidded. "Though I might rip one of his ears off in the process." 

 

“Let me shout in both of them, first. You can rip them off once I’m done,” Sinbad compromises, heaving himself up from the bed with a grunt. Every part of him hurts, though at least Ja’far had been good enough to strip off the grotesque remnants of his clothes. Unperturbed, he grabs a sheet from where it had been kicked off the bed, a deft twist of his hands wrapping it around himself so he wouldn’t disturb the servants (again). “I’ll be back. Take care of Judal while I’m gone.”

 

Now _that_ is easier said than done. Ja'far simply nods, trying not to sigh too hard as he pulls the sheets properly over the little lump of Magi once more. 

 

Alibaba, meanwhile, can't sleep.

 

He can't get up and pace, either, what with how that would make too much noise and Aladdin _does_ need his rest. Still, the nervous energy coursing through him is impossible to suppress, and so he tosses and turns, yanking a pillow over his head and barely stopping himself from screaming into it. 

 

What is he supposed to _do?_

 

Taking the throne now is against everything he wants for Balbadd, and yet… is there any other option? _There has to be_ , he tells himself, biting and worrying his lip until it bleeds. 

 

Sinbad doesn’t mind the way his body looks right now. If anything, the bruises and half-healed lacerations make him look more dangerous, and right now, he doesn’t mind that at all. Sheet swathed around his hips, he makes his way to Alibaba and Aladdin’s room, easing the door open a tiny crack to peer inside. It wouldn’t do to go startling Aladdin out of sleep, not when he probably needs it as much as Sinbad had.

 

Of course, rolling to the side and catching a glimpse of the door cracking open and _Sinbad_ standing there is enough to give him heart palpitations. 

 

Alibaba swallows hard. Maybe pretending to be asleep is the better option. Ahh, damn it, when did he become so _avoidant?_

 

Sinbad rubs the bridge of his nose. “Alibaba,” he whispers, pitching his voice low. “If I have to drag you out of there it’ll wake Aladdin up. You’re responsible for enough without making him lose sleep, don’t you think?”

 

That makes him cringe. Point taken. Carefully, he peels himself out of bed, sparing a last, worried glance to the sleeping Magi in question as he slinks his way out of the room and shuts the door behind himself. "Um--" Where to even start? "Are you… okay? I mean you look…" _Not_ okay.

 

Sinbad folds his arms over his chest, turning and walking down the hall. The palace hasn’t changed much in the years Abbas’s obnoxious sons were in charge, and his feet carry him unerringly to the throne chamber. It’ll do the boy some good to have the conversation in there. “Keep up.”

 

He feels rather like a son that's being chastised. 

 

At least, he's pretty sure that's what this feels like. It's not like his father ever really got on his case about a lot of things, but the servants would, and so… Alibaba winces, and hesitantly follows after Sinbad. "You didn't have to come all this way to begin with," he tries again. 

 

“No, I should have ignored it when Aladdin personally begged me for help, and let the Kou Empire sit on my doorstep fortifying their position. Sit,” he adds, nodding at the golden throne.

 

At that, Alibaba stops dead. "I know what you're trying to make me do." His hands curl loosely into fists at his sides. "And I know _you_ think that's what I should do--but I can't, Sinbad. I'm not a king. Even if I was, that isn't what Balbadd _needs_." 

 

“I’m not telling you to become the king. Sit. You need to know what you’re giving up.” He turns his eyes to stare at Alibaba, eyes cold and still. “And by extension, what you’re putting on someone else’s shoulders. Sitting on that throne won’t make you a king, go ahead.”

 

"I'm not giving anything up because I've never taken it in the _first place_." Alibaba's jaw clenches. "And it doesn't have to be on just one person's shoulders, that's the _point_." 

 

“No, you never took it. That is in your favor, at least,” Sinbad acknowledges, and sits slowly on the ground, hissing out a gasp of pain through his teeth. “It was _given_ to you. To you in particular, not just any random boy, or even any prince. It was given to you so that the country did _not_ fall into the wrong hands. Sit down, or as a friend of your father before he passed I will _place_ you in that seat.”

 

Alibaba hesitates before relenting with a long, aggravated sigh, and simply steps up onto the dais and drops himself down into the throne. He'd much prefer a proper lecture, or… anything, other than this. "There. I'm sitting, now what?" he grumbles.

 

“Are you comfortable?”

 

"Not really--look, if you have something to say to me, just go ahead and say it. I can tell you're not well, anyway, there's no point in dragging this out."

 

“No point in dragging this out,” Sinbad repeats softly. He folds his legs, taking a deep breath and letting it out again. His patience is considerably frayed around the edges, and it’s difficult to remember to keep his temper. “What do you think a King is, Alibaba?”

 

All right, in retrospect, that phrasing probably wasn't the best, but--"I… haven't thought about it that much. Someone in charge of a country, governing it and making decisions for everyone in it." 

 

Sinbad nods. The boy is a bit slow, but not actually _stupid_. He’ll understand, as long as Sinbad speaks slowly and doesn’t use too many big words or high concepts, and doesn’t sound like he’s giving orders. “What kind of decisions do you think a king makes? Bear in mind that a good king has a cabinet to make all the small decisions, so it’s the big ones that depend on a king.”

 

Okay. This wasn't the kind of _lecture_ he was talking about. "About the country's people and trade and taxes and a ton of other things… I _know_ how government works." 

 

“Do you? Good. Does the man who locked you up in his cellar?” Sinbad asks, resting his hands on his knees.

 

"I don't know. I didn't exactly _ask_ ," Alibaba mutters. 

 

“Right. It isn’t your problem. What about the woman who sells--sorry, _sold_ fruit on the corner, or the rag-and-bone men who collect the trash from the gutters every morning?”

 

"I don't know, all right?" He shifts anxiously, annoyed. "Probably not, I guess. And I didn't say it wasn't my _problem_ , I just--I don't want them to know about a _king's_ government, that's different." 

 

“Is it?” Sinbad frowns, thinking, or at least giving the appearance of deep thought. “How is it different whether a king makes a choice or ten men make a choice? It still isn’t going to be the rag-and-bone men, is it? They work sixteen hours a day, the worst hours of the day, to put bones and crusts on the table for their children. And you told them that as well as that, they must all be the king and run the government.”

 

"At least ten people or however many people is better than _one person_ making all the decisions," Alibaba protests. "It's a _lot_ different. And--and those men don't have to be king, or anything like that. All I've told them is that they'd have a _say_ in things, some kind of a voice whereas they normally _wouldn't_." 

 

“And when did you decide they wouldn’t?” Sinbad commends himself for keeping his voice level--really, Ja’far should give him a back rub or something later. “It’s only a _bad_ king that doesn’t listen to his subjects. If you want your people to have a voice in things, lead them well and _listen_ to them, and pick someone after you who will be a good king and _listen_ to the people. That’s what your father did. It’s a lot easier than telling men who’ve never been inside the palace that it’s their job to vote on whether or not to increase tariffs on exported leathers.”

 

"I never decided that they wouldn't, I just--you know, most kings _aren't_ good," he points out in exasperation, frowning. "You and Sindria… that's different. A lot different. I can't make something like that happen, so I have to do it this way instead."

 

“Your people hate it,” Sinbad says bluntly. “All their lives they lived under a very good king, and Balbadd prospered. Then there was a bad king, and it faltered. And now they have no king.” _And thank you, for the opening._ “If it’s your own abilities you don’t trust in, let me help you.”

 

"The only reason they hate it is because they won't give it a chance! They haven't let me _do_ anything yet." Alibaba shakes his head, resting his chin in one hand as he looks aside. "I know you're just trying to help, but I have to do it this way. Balbadd doesn't need a king. I wouldn't be a good one, anyway."

 

“So, give it to me.”

 

"… You'll just turn it into part of your monarchy, though. I just said it _didn't_ need a king." 

 

Sinbad leans forward, resting his chin on his folded hands. “How about this. Until the war is over--and believe me, war requires a strong king or a parliament that’s been functioning well for decades--you let me take Balbadd under my wing. When it’s over, I’ll cede it back to you, and you can _slowly_ help them understand the idea of republicanism. When you and I decide that it’s ready--with a senate and a constitution and a population that understands what you’re trying to do--we’ll build a republic together.”

 

Alibaba wavers. Never mind that he hopped out of a basement to find that they were apparently at _war_ \--how that happened, he's not quite sure, because it was bad, but not _that bad_ before. Either way, he doesn't exactly want Balbadd to _fall_ , or to be a monarchy again, it's just--

 

Ugh, maybe the two _aren't_ capable of being mutually exclusive right now, after all. And with the way Sinbad puts it, this could actually _work_ …

 

"… You really mean it, when you say all of that? You're not gonna convince me over time, you know, that having a king is the right thing here." 

 

Sinbad shrugs, ignoring the spasms that shoots through his back. “If I can’t convince you, then you’re at no risk of being convinced.” He stands, walking towards the throne and laying a hand on Alibaba’s shoulder. “I can’t make promises for the future, none of us can. But I _will_ promise that so long as I draw breath, what is in my care will never fall to the Kou Empire or Al-Sarmen.”

 

"… All right, but--just for now, until the war is over," Alibaba insists, lifting his head with a frown. "I just don't want them to suffer any more, and if they won't listen to me right now… then… maybe listening to you will at least get Balbadd through all of this. I don't want the Kou Empire to take this place, and I definitely don't want Al-Sarmen to either."

 

Sinbad sighs, unafraid to show just how relieved he is. “Then at least we didn’t come for nothing. All right, Alibaba. Ready to learn about being a wartime counsellor to a king? I think you’ll find it pretty similar to leading a republican council, when it comes down to it. Might come in handy. Oh, and you can get off the throne. I know it makes your ass fall asleep.”

 

Alibaba nods gratefully, sliding off of the throne with a long, weary sigh. "I really am sorry… you know, about what happened. I didn't… I know it doesn't change anything to be sorry about it, but I still am. I didn't want it to get to this point." 

 

Sinbad nods, accepting the apology. What else can he do, really? “It wasn’t your fault entirely. Here’s a question,” he adds, taking Alibaba’s arm and steering him out of the throne room, “what would you do with our new prisoners? Advise me, as if you were on the council.” Better to get the boy used to the idea of being one of his generals now.

 

"Well--doesn't that kind of depend on Kou's move?" Alibaba nervously attempts. "Obviously, if we kill them either way, that's kind of blatantly asking for Kou to come storming in here… right now, keeping them alive and well is probably the smartest thing, then we can actually bargain with them at some point…" 

 

Sinbad nods, giving the boy a bit of approval. It’s a good answer, his own answer. “However, they are also my only living enemies to have seen the face of my deadliest assassin. Does that change your counsel?”

 

Alibaba's brow furrows. "… But you've got a Magi. There's magic to deal with that sort of thing… isn't there?" 

 

Sinbad gives him a wan smile--not encouragement, but not a denial either. “Perhaps, when my Magi is more recovered, if he is able. Most of the magic available to him is the healing sort, as you’ve doubtless heard.”

 

Ah. He hadn't realized it was that bad. Then again, it's sort of a relief, in a way, to hear that Judal is a little subdued. "Then… until then, I'd probably keep them away from all outside sources… and definitely not give them back to the Kou Empire yet." 

 

“And what do I tell the Emperor, when he sends messengers asking what has been done with his brothers?”

 

_It isn’t so easy, boy. The sooner you realize that, the less suffering you’ll cause your people._

 

"Just… that they're being kept as prisoners of war? Isn't that enough?" 

 

“Is it? What if…” Sinbad sighs, pushing his hair back. “We can talk more later. You made a good choice for your people today, Alibaba. Now if you don’t mind, I need a rest.” He needs _Ja’far_ , but a rest is as good a way to say that as any.

 

"I… ah… okay. I won't keep you any longer," Alibaba says, attempting a smile that manages to be more worried than anything else. _I hope this was the right choice._

 

Now if only Aladdin will agree with him.

 

It takes but a moment for Alibaba to turn on his heel, slipping down the palace hallways away from Sinbad. "That," comes Ja'far's low drawl from the shadows, a forward tilt of his head making his presence better known, "was rather like taking candy from a baby." 

 

Sinbad grins, rolling his head to get rid of one of the knots in his neck. “Well, you know, candy isn’t good for babies. They should leave that kind of thing with a responsible adult.”

 

"I'm not disagreeing, just…" Ja'far rolls his eyes, pushing away from the wall. "It was a bit underhanded, even for you. Ah, well. 'As you sow, so shall you reap.' How are you feeling, besides?"

 

“I fail to see what’s underhanded about something going _easily_ for once,” Sinbad protests. “I asked, he gave. You know I’ll take better care of it than he would, or anyone in his ‘republic’ would. And I feel wretched. I need a massage. Preferably by someone with small hands and large--ah, reserves of patience.”

 

"… Are you really trying to tell me you weren't aiming to simply take Balbadd from him in the first place?" Ja'far turns, crooking a finger for Sinbad to follow. "I put Judal to bed with Aladdin, by the way. He seems happier that way, right now… they're like kittens, I swear."

 

The relief Sinbad feels at that is palpable. No matter how he wants the Magi close, to protect and heal, he also wants them _safe_ \--and more importantly right now, he wants _privacy_. “They’ll probably heal faster that way. Something about the rukh when they’re together.”

 

He follows Ja’far’s finger gladly, easing himself down onto the bed. “And I need you. All to myself, entirely selfishly.”

 

"Isn't that what you usually want?" Ja'far sighs, though he sounds less than annoyed, especially with the upward twitch of his lips. He simply throws a leg over Sinbad's hips, hands immediately sliding up to the man's shoulders. "It's fine, though. I will let you be selfish for now."

 

Sinbad sighs, raising his hands to Ja’far’s waist, feeling the warmth, the solid strength of him, and taking immeasurable comfort from the softness there. “I usually want it. Today I need it. Even if you don’t want to--I just need you near me.”

 

"Sin." Ja'far leans further down, bumping his nose against Sinbad's before tilting his head to press their lips together. "I just told you it's fine," he murmurs, thumbs pressing into tense, aching muscle with a slow, firm rub. "I have been worried sick about you, do you think I don't understand?" 

 

The kiss is too much.

 

His _need_ for Ja’far is so strong, Sinbad can’t help the low groan that comes from his mouth, the way he holds Ja’far down with all the strength in his arms, hands fisting into soft cloth. “I’ve...been worried,” he admits, voice catching a little. Those long days had been hell, closer to it than he’s ever come. “I didn’t think I’d…”

 

_Ever see you again._

 

"Did you think I wouldn't come, and that I'd stay within Sindria?" His fingers slide up the sides of Sinbad's neck, burying into his hair as Ja'far sinks down on top of him, nuzzling beneath his chin with a hitching little sigh. "I'm getting old, too, you know. My hearing isn't as sharp, so it's easier to not hear orders properly." 

 

Sinbad’s arms close around Ja’far’s back, burying his face down into Ja’far’s hair, hands sliding up and down his back. “I didn’t know if you’d get the news in time. I never doubted your _capabilities_.” He presses a kiss to the top of Ja’far’s head. “Your job is just much more difficult to do from far away.”

 

"If my spies aren't fast, they aren't of any use to me… especially at times like this." A slow, warm exhale escapes against Sinbad's neck. "Honestly… I'm here now, aren't I? It isn't like you, worrying _this_ much." 

 

Sinbad huffs out a breath through his nose, fingers tracing little patterns on Ja’far’s back. “It’s not like me to be taken by surprise, either. I’ve never…”

 

_Never let something so bad happen to people I was supposed to protect._

 

_Never been so vulnerable._

 

_Never been hurt so badly._

 

"And now you know, and it won't happen again." _Never mind that Kouha and Koumei are probably the tip of the Kou Empire's iceberg._

 

He'd prefer not to think about it, but that isn't how his mind works.

 

Ja'far butts his head against the other man's shoulder instead. "What happened to wanting that massage, hmm?" 

 

Sinbad smiles--just barely, but it’s a smile. “What if that was just a dastardly plot to get you to touch me?”

 

"It wasn't a very good plot," Ja'far sighs as he pushes himself up with a rather deliberate shift of his hips. "Very transparent. And later, you really could use a massage, your back is a mess." 

 

Sinbad grunts at the press of Ja’far’s hips, hands sliding down to Ja’far’s hips, then his thighs, squeezing and kneading. “All of me is a mess. But I took a bath, so you’re welcome to explore for yourself.”

 

Ja'far snorts at that, even as he shivers at the kneading of Sinbad's hands, wriggling down more insistently in response. "I think I know by now exactly how much of a _mess_ you always are," he murmurs, gently running a hand down Sin's chest. "No more trips into enemy territory without me. Parliamentary override, a very firm request, whatever you want to call it." 

 

Sinbad can feel Ja’far’s fingers tracing over every new scar, every bump and bruise and cut, and winces more from vanity than pain. “Yes, sir, General.”

 

He reaches down and catches Ja’far’s hand, holding it still for a moment, catching his eyes too. “It’ll get better. I--when Judal’s better, he’ll fix me. It won’t always be so ugly.”

 

Ja'far blinks at him in surprise before his face slowly softens, and he shakes his head, fingers squeezing about Sinbad's. "If I would still stay with you if you were a fat, lazy drunk, what makes you think a few scars will deter me any further? Besides," he adds, thumb rubbing over the back of Sinbad's hand, "I don't think it's ugly any more than you think my legs or arms are. I would just prefer for you to be _well_." 

 

Something cold and dark in Sinbad’s chest uncurls, just a bit, and it’s a little easier to breathe. “Your king is foolish and vain. And he doesn’t deserve you.” He runs his fingers down Ja’far’s thighs, brushing over those scars with a thumb. It’s true, he’s never been thrown off by them--quite the opposite, he’s never been less than _intrigued_.

 

Ja'far sighs, straightening to tug his tunic off and over his head. For now, the wires stay tightly wrapped about his arms--removing them far from a luxury that they have in their current situation. "My king," he simply argues, "is perfect. There isn't another that I would rather serve."

 

Sinbad’s eyes are bright, and his hands tighten on Ja’far, wanting nothing more than to roll them over and hold the younger man down, to cover him with his own body and show him just how _much_ that loyalty runs both ways.

 

But for now...perhaps discretion is the better part of valor, and every part of him aches. “He’s foolish and vain,” he says again, softly, as one hand comes up to brush the hair out of Ja’far’s face. “And whether you would hear it or no, he loves you very much.”

 

"I know." 

 

Ja'far turns his head, nuzzling into Sinbad's hand and kissing his palm. "You don't have to say it, though," he murmurs, his own hands sliding down to pluck at the knot tying the sheet into place around Sinbad's hips with some amusement. "It's a little melodramatic." 

 

Sinbad’s cheeks flush at that, and he ducks his head, tossing the sheet out of the way. “It is, isn’t it?” he agrees, a sheepish grin on his face, hands coming to slide up Ja’far’s thighs, cupping his ass. “Ah, well. Forgive me this once and I’ll never say it again.”

 

"And by that, you mean every time you are drunk," Ja'far gently teases, even as he arches his back with a low, rumbling groan, sliding back into Sinbad's hands, against the hard line of his cock. "Ahh… is there something we can use, or…"

 

Sinbad curses, eyes darting around the room. “Did you find my things, or--ah, there! That’s an oil burner, there must be some underneath.” He throws out a hand, grabbing the little pot and taking an exploratory sniff. “Mm, nice.”

 

He dips his fingertips, sliding them up to tease over Ja’far’s hole, watching his face intently. “I’ll go slow next time,” he promises, like he’s promised a dozen times before. “Just--right now, just--I need you--”

 

"You always say that," Ja'far gasps, shivering at that initial touch and biting his lip as he wriggles back in encouragement. "How many times do I have to tell you that it's _fine?_ " Never mind that it's been at least a year, and his nerves feel like they're on fire already, tense and trembling and aching. _You--_ "… aren't the only one who needs this," he murmurs, flushing with the words. Better, now, to _say_ something like that, when Sinbad needs to hear it. 

 

Sinbad’s cock twitches at those words, and he pulls his fingers away to slick his cock, ignoring every thought about how it’s definitely too fast, too much. Ja’far is stronger than he thinks, than anyone thinks, always. 

 

He grips Ja’far’s hip with one hand, holding himself steady with the other as he positions himself, slowly dragging the leaking head down the cleft of Ja’far’s ass to press at his hole. “Go on,” he murmurs. “Slide down, show me how much you can take.”

 

It _is_ too fast, and he knows it'll be too much, too. Part of the allure is in that, though, and Ja'far's thighs shiver and bunch as he pushes himself up, panting at that first press of the head of Sinbad's cock against him, and the slick, tight _push_ of it inside. He nearly bites a hole in his lip as he wriggles his way down, chest heaving from the effort, every muscle in his body trembling and protesting at that tight, _tight_ stretch, and there's no helping the way his nails bite and dig into Sinbad's chest as he sinks down until he simply _can't_ anymore, their hips flush and his head tipped forward as he pants heavily. 

 

"Good," he breathlessly, brokenly reassures Sinbad, whimpering as he squirms atop his cock, so _full_ that he can't _think_. "R… really good." 

 

It’s no exaggeration, none at all, for Sinbad to say that he’d never thought he’d feel anything good ever again. He’d certainly never thought he’d feel something like _this_ again, Ja’far twitching and spasming around him, a sweet tight clench that makes him see stars, hands coming up to grip the younger man’s hips. There’s enough strength left in him for this, and he rocks slowly up, pulling Ja’far down as gently as he can, filling him again and again, slick and hot and _hard_. 

 

“Just like that,” he breathes, rolling his hips up to stretch Ja’far wide. “Just like that, let me see your face when it’s in you.”

 

It would be overwhelming even if they did this every _day_ , but like this, after so long, after what's just _happened_ \--it's so good that it _hurts_ , an edge of pain that makes Ja'far squirm and shiver all the more, and god, does he like it that way. The upward press of Sinbad's hips makes him tremble, brings already tight muscles to draw _tighter_ , and he lifts hand to half-muffle a sob, brow knitted and face flushed hot as he finally manages to lift his head, all while bracing his knees to better wriggle and slide his way back down, stuffing himself so full that his vision blurs. "S… Sin--" What use is there in _pleading_ when he can work himself down onto Sinbad's cock like this, panting, groaning with every slide, needy and _desperate?_

 

Sinbad isn’t sure where he finds the strength to lift Ja’far, easing him off and on, up and down, setting a slow, tense rhythm between their bodies. It’s _relief_ to touch Ja’far again, a fire’s heat after frostbite, and he’s pins and needles up and down every limb, gritting his teeth at each slick, too-tight slide into Ja’far’s body. “I’m right here,” he murmurs, rocking up to fill Ja’far again and again, shivering when his hips slap against Ja’far’s ass. “As long as you want me like this, I’ll always be here.”

 

"How many times… ahhh… do I have to tell you?" Amazing, that he can even manage that much, in between shuddering at that hard, deep slide into his body, the way his legs feel like giving out when Sinbad presses _just right_ , and god, he can't help but wriggle down at that same angle, breath hiccuping and catching as his fingers curl into Sinbad's chest. "No matter what happens, I'll always _want you_. Y-you're just…" Ja'far shakily laughs, and his head falls forward again, hair swinging with each rock and grind down of his hips. "Far, _far_ too much… most of the time…" 

 

Sinbad breathes out a laugh at that, rolling his hips up, giving Ja’far more than he can handle, striking him just so. It’s not fair, and he won’t last long himself at this rate, not when being inside Ja’far makes him _melt_ like this. “You love it when it’s too much. I can--ahh--see it on your face.” It’s a privilege, a shining jewel to be allowed to see this, and Sinbad’s fingers dig into Ja’far’s sides, yanking him down too hard, slamming his hips up to meet Ja’far’s, staring intently, watching the play of helpless emotions when he thrusts.

 

There's no helping the broken mix of a yelp and a keen that pulls from his throat, not when Sinbad _knows_ just how to pull him down, just how to shove up into him all at once, and there's nothing he can _do_ but sob, writhing down with helpless, mindless little jerks of his hips. Sinbad is _right_. Ja'far loves it like this, and he can't _stop_ from sagging down, trembling, aching with every thrust as his cock throbs. "Siinnn… ah, _god_ \--" he groans, biting hard into his lip again to keep from mewling like a harlot as he comes, shivering and twitching and _lost_ as he spills, every limb shaking so hard that he's left thankful, _so_ thankful for Sinbad's hands on him keeping him upright.

 

It’s a mercy, more than anything, when Ja’far spills onto his stomach, keening his name low and needy. Sinbad knows he’s just a little too rough even now, yanking Ja’far down, and god, he _wants_ to lurch up and nibble that pale neck and _bite_ \--

 

It’s beyond his body now, but that’s _fine_ , it’s all fine, because Ja’far is tight and hot around him, squeezing and wriggling, and Sinbad groans when he comes, slamming as deep as he can get in this position, up between Ja’far’s spread legs before sagging back down to the bed, spent and twitching and sweating. He brings a hand up to Ja’far’s face, brushing damp hair away from his forehead. _All the things I don’t need to say are still true._

 

The normal urge to simply collapse into Sinbad's chest is strong, but Ja'far catches himself beforehand, shuddering as he slowly, carefully picks himself up and flops to the side instead, chest still heaving as he nestles close. "You're all right?" he manages hoarsely, lifting a hand to gently rest it upon the heavy rise and fall of Sinbad's own chest. 

 

Sinbad lets out a hoarse laugh, curling an arm around Ja’far’s waist to pull him close. He’s breathing much harder than he’d normally be after something like that, but Ja’far is in his arms, and that makes up for a lot of pain. “If I can do that, I’m all right,” he assures the younger man, pressing a kiss to one freckled shoulder. “Though when I _do_ die, I hope it’s like this.”

 

"I'll be sure to strip on the battlefield for you," Ja'far dryly retorts as he rests his head against Sinbad's shoulder. " _Do_ remember to bring oil, though." 

 

Sinbad snakes a hand down to pinch Ja’far’s ass gently. “I’ll die a happy man.”

 

The swat towards Sinbad's hand is reflexive. "Good. Don't ever say I don't spoil you." 

 

~~

 

He doesn't feel the _move_ so much as the warmth afterwards, the languid spin of rukh that is as good as any warm body to curl up against--ah, though he has that, too.

 

A bed is nice, but the pile of blankets and pillows and _Aladdin_ is nicer. Judal can tell it's him just by scent now, just by the way the rukh stirs and flutters all the more, and he sleeps much more peacefully this way, huddled beneath half a dozen blankets, naked save for the spill of his own, unbound hair, and like this, he feels better than he has in days, never mind still being sore and tired and _hurting_. 

 

He doesn't want to think about any of that.

 

He dreams of it, though. Kouha is impossible to push from his mind, and all Judal can think of is how they _used_ to get along just fine, even if Kouha was a bit too clingy, a bit too insistent about some things, and never quite knew about limits back then, because he liked watching things squirm a bit too much. _This_ Kouha knows limits, knows them _too_ well, and he _still_ likes to watch things squirm, and Judal remembers hating every second of it, hating how _easily_ Kouha could poke and prod at the worst parts of his mind that Judal was so, so sure he had tucked out of reach, left as nothing more than a dog for the Kou Empire's use all over again. 

 

This time, he had understood it was _wrong_ , that it was a bad thing, and that had made it a dozen times worse. Whoever else Kouha threw him to was nothing-- _Kouha_ was still the worst, and always, _always_ , it came back to him.

 

_Traitor, traitor, traitor_.

 

But he _wasn't_. He isn't. A Magi can't be a traitor, it doesn't work like that unless they've already chosen a king, and even then they still _can't_.

 

_Normal humans don't understand._

 

Judal buries his face into Aladdin's neck, nuzzling back into his hair with a shaky little exhale. His braid is gone, and that's no good. He's slept long enough to unwind the tiny braids from his own hair with magic--making Aladdin's _grow_ again isn't much harder of a task. It's the least he can do, especially if he has to use the rest of his reserves to better heal Sinbad later. 

 

Magic twitches around Aladdin’s body, and he sleeps all the better for it. In a way it reminds him of home, of the solitude, of the empty necropolis where there had only been him and Ugo and the magic. It had treated him like a friend, like a lost child, had wrapped him in a fluttering, tingling embrace and he’d known intrinsically that in that dead city, no one could hurt him.

 

The rukh swirls around him, and he’s come home, curling up against a warm body that smells like nighttime and perfume and gold, rubbing his face into soft hair as his body tingles. 

 

Eventually, even a long healing sleep must come to an end, but at least when it does Aladdin can feel the rukh again. He can feel it spinning out of him too, settling in little healing flurries around the body nestled up close to him, less a directed spell and more a soothing, a caring, helping the other person’s body heal itself.

 

He’s not surprised to find Judal in his arms; he eases into the knowledge, and it just makes everything a bit _better_ , really, bringing that extra warmth and comfort, his hands twining through the combined mess of their hair--

 

Their _hair_.

 

He looks down, startled out of sleep, but it’s true--black and blue swirled together, the tingling at the base of his scalp telling him that yes, it’s back. Tears prick at his eyes, and he squeezes them shut, arms tightening around Judal’s back. “Thank you,” he whispers, not sure if Judal’s awake or not. Either way, he means it.

 

"… Is that the right length?" Judal's voice is hoarse from disuse, his eyes lidded and vision a little hazy as he blinks up at Aladdin, lifting his head from his shoulder just slightly. "I can make it longer… but I just kinda eyeballed it…" He frowns, reaching out a hand to tug on it a little. "You don't look right, without your hair and everything."

 

“It’s fine.” Aladdin’s voice is rusty too, less from lack of use and more from the unshed tears he blinks back. He nuzzles down, resting his forehead against Judal’s, closing his eyes. “It doesn’t matter how long it is. Now it’s whatever length _you_ chose and that’s fine. I can just...think about you.”

 

_Instead of them._

 

"All right."

 

Judal's head tips forward, bumping his nose against Aladdin's as he throws a leg over the other magi's hip to stay close. "Did you have bad dreams, too?" He shivers, reaching up to curl his hands through Aladdin's hair. "They're the worst. I haven't… had anything like that in a long time, but…"

 

“Yeah.” 

 

It’s okay to admit it to Judal. Judal was there too. Judal knows about _them_. Aladdin nudges his head against Judal’s hands, relaxing a bit after realizing that he’d tensed up. “I had better dreams once you got in here, though.”

 

"… I want to kill him." Judal shivers, burying himself against Aladdin, winding his fingers tighter through Aladdin's hair. "Kouha left you alone. I'm glad, he's… they don't _get it_ , I didn't _betray_ anyone."

 

"They don't understand us." It helps, somehow to be Judal's comfort. It reminds Aladdin that he's not useless, he's not good for nothing, he's not _alone_ , and he's doing something _good._ "No one really does. Not even magicians. Not even the kings." It reminds him a bit of the words of an old man he'd thought very, very wrong, though Aladdin's words are just sad and tired. 

 

"I hate it. I did a lot of bad things, but leaving the Kou Empire wasn't _wrong_. They didn't _want me_ , I went there first!" His voice cracks and he shoves his face deeper into Aladdin's neck. "They didn't want me, so how can I be a traitor?" 

 

“You’re _not_.” Aladdin strokes his hands down Judal’s back, the same direction every time, making sure not to muss the millions of strands of hair. “The only person you have to be loyal to is your king. They’re the ones who drove you out in the first place and tried to take away your magic.” 

"Sinbad would be mad if I killed them, so I can't even do that." Judal huffs softly. "It's not fair. I just... I'm just going to stay in here with you, I don't ever wanna leave."

 

Aladdin beams at that, curling his body farther around Judal’s. “Fine by me!” he says cheerily, rolling them around a bit to get more comfortable. “I’m not really ready to see Alibaba yet anyway, I think I might yell at him again or punch him.”

"...if you do, I wanna watch."  Judal pauses, worming his way against Aladdin. "I know a way to really freak him out. I can show you, too. Black djinn puppets are easy to make with light magic..."

 

Aladdin really shouldn’t laugh. He stifles it into Judal’s shoulder, blowing an impromptu raspberry. “That’s _really_ mean,” he manages, trying as hard as he can to wipe the smile off his face. 

"Doesn't he deserve it?" Judal makes a face, squirming. "Always slobbering on me, gross," he grumbles, leaning up to gently bite on Aladdin's shoulder. "Bite, don't slobber."

 

That drags a much happier little noise from Aladdin’s throat, and he wriggles around, arranging himself with a thigh dragging up between Judal’s, both hands tangled in his hair as he starts to nibble. “I never know how hard to bite so I don’t hurt you.”

Aladdin is a warm, welcome weight, and Judal sighs as he sinks down into the pillows, splaying his fingers over Aladdin's back. "You won't hurt me," he murmurs, tugging a little on a strand of hair as he tips his head back. "You've never hurt me. You could draw blood and it would still be okay... Mm, though I like the kind that leave bruises best."

 

Aladdin frowns a little at that. “Is it okay if we do it without leaving bruises sometimes?” he asks, voice wavering a little. “Just sometimes? I’ve...got enough bruises, and I think you do too.”

"... They go away, you know." Judal leans up, gently dragging his teeth over the curve of Aladdin's shoulder. "And these kinds are different. They don't hurt, they just remind me that I was with you. But... You don't have to do it every time, it's fine."

 

Aladdin nuzzles down against Judal’s neck. He’s shifting almost constantly now; every position seems good, but like he could be just a _little bit_ more comfortable if they turned, if he had his arms _just so_ , if he nuzzled his head down just a bit. “I’ll remind you you were with me,” he promises. “I’ll think of lots of ways without hurting you.”

 

"It doesn't hurt," Judal reminds him, but he doesn't argue further than that, giving Aladdin's hair another little tug as he wriggles up against him, squirming to wind his legs around him. He tilts his head, sucking the lobe of Aladdin's ear into his mouth, nipping and tugging on it as he sighs out hot breath into his neck. "The rukh's happy we're together," he sighs. "Maybe if we stay like this for awhile, it'll heal us even more…" 

 

Judal’s mouth is hot and wet, and it makes Aladdin shiver with the promise of it, with the memory of being buried inside it, the memory of those kisses. “I can feel it too. I just thought it was you taking care of me while I was asleep,” he murmurs, hands wrapping tight around Judal’s waist.

 

"I tried to." Judal butts his face into Aladdin's neck, nibbling at the thrum of his pulse and sucking gently. "Your hair is the easy part," he mumbles. "I wanted to do more… but I have to heal Sinbad again later, I didn't do a very good job before." 

 

“It’s fine, re--really,” Aladdin gasps, squirming around under Judal’s mouth. “I’m not hurt bad, I just--”

 

He wriggles down, curling a hand into Judal’s hair and dragging him up for a kiss, mouth urgent and seeking and _hungry_.

 

A long, heated sigh escapes against Aladdin's mouth, and Judal worms his way up against him, clutching at his hair, nibbling and sucking on his lower lip. "You _feel_ better, at least," he murmurs, breath hitching as he spreads his thighs to better cradle Aladdin's hips between them. 

 

Aladdin murmurs something unintelligible in agreement, a lot less concerned with words and more concerned about the way Judal’s mouth tastes, about wriggling around to lie on top of him, nestled between his thighs, about the warmth and comfort he takes from just being so _close_.

 

Judal thinks he probably purrs like a cat, and paws at Aladdin's back like one, too, as he lazily kisses back, nibbles and nips and drags his fingertips down Aladdin's spine, pulling at his hair and stroking every bump and line of muscle. He only pauses when the door cracks open, and his eyes glint over Aladdin's shoulder in the dim light, catching a glimpse of a blond head before the door shuts too fast and too loud to be _subtle_ as Alibaba retreats.

 

"Mmnn, I don't think your king expected me." Oops. _Sorry, not sorry._

 

Aladdin pulls back a few inches, making a face. “He hasn’t…I mean, he hasn’t seen you since way, way before.” He sighs, leaning down to press a few more soft kisses to Judal’s mouth before rolling to the side, wrapping a sheet around his shoulders against the morning’s chill. “I better talk to him.”

 

"Ruuude, tell him to come back in here and he can talk while you're keeping me warm," Judal complains, lurching up to drape himself against Aladdin's side, chin dropping atop his shoulder. "I'll be good, I promise." 

 

Aladdin beams, casting the sheet aside and crawling back under the covers to nuzzle against Judal. “Okay! Hey, Alibaba,” he calls, raising his voice. “Come in, I want to talk to you and it’s _warm_ here.”

 

The door slowly, hesitantly cracks open again, and Alibaba pokes his head inside. Judal smiles. _Nicely._ It's sort of frightening, all the same. "Um… uh, sorry if I … interrupted anything?" _Awkward_.

 

“It’s fine,” Aladdin assures him cheerfully, wriggling around to press his back against Judal’s front, all the better to see his king with. “I wanted to say I was sorry for yelling at you.”

 

Alibaba shuts the door entirely, rubbing the back of his neck as he pointedly doesn't _look_ at the sight of Aladdin all but wrapped around Judal yet again. "Yeah, well. I was kind of being an idiot, so I deserved it… I'm the reason everyone ended up like this, after all."

 

Judal idly flicks a finger, plucking at the shadow Alibaba casts himself. 

 

Aladdin puts a hand out, patting Judal’s fingers down. _Not yet, I’m trying to have a conversation_. “It wasn’t all you,” he assures his king, a lot more forgiving now that he has his hair back and Judal spooned up with him. “So, did you have a conversation with Sinbad? Or was he still sleeping?”

 

Judal bites his cheek in a pout, but relents all the same, huffing as he sags forward into Aladdin's back.

 

Alibaba still doesn't look. Nope, too weird, can't do it. "Ah, yeah. I talked to him--he actually came and found _me_ …" He trails off, suddenly looking rather nervous and relieved all at once. "I think… maybe, we came up with a plan to fix things." 

 

Something about the way Alibaba says that--doesn’t exactly say he’ll be king, just that “we” have a plan...one of his fears about going to Sindria for help in the first place creeps in. “What kind of plan, Alibaba?”

 

"Well--" Alibaba sucks in a steadying breath. "I think--he was telling me about how if we're going to fight a war, there needs to be a really strong monarchy and everything in place… and Balbadd doesn't have that, so I agreed it would be best if he took over for a bit, and then after the war is over, he gives Balbadd back to me."

 

Judal just barely bites back a snort. 

 

Very deliberately, Aladdin releases Judal’s hand. “You gave Sinbad the throne of Balbadd?” he asks carefully, wanting to make sure he’s actually hearing this right. “But you’re _going_ to be king when the war is over, right?” _At least tell me you aren’t just running away because you’re afraid. I know there’s a brave king in there somewhere, I know it._

 

"Sinbad said he'd help me build a republic, actually!" Alibaba earnestly replies, oblivious to the darkening and growing of his shadow behind him. "So once the war is over, we can go with my original plan!" 

 

“It’s not a plan if you don’t have any idea what you’re doing!” Aladdin stops himself from screaming by a tiny margin, gritting his teeth. By this point, is there anything left to do? He turns aside, burying his face into Judal’s shoulder. “If you’re so mad at me for choosing you as a king, just tell me.”

 

"I--I'm not mad! It's just--I don't want to be _that_ kind of king… I know what I'm doing, I studied this kind of thing for a long while, you know--" Alibaba exhales a long sigh as he steps forward. "Balbadd just wasn't able to handle what I wanted to do at first, and I had to leave, so I wasn't here to oversee it, besides. But I'll be here now, and Sinbad said he's going to _help_ , so it'll work out, I promise." 

 

Judal tips his head to the side to lay it against Aladdin's sympathetically, all while twirling his finger for making the final touches of a rather monstrous black djinn. _I wonder if making it call out his name pathetically is too much._

 

Aladdin really shouldn’t let Judal play such a mean trick on Alibaba. It’s cruel, and it’s deceitful, and even if he _does_ feel like a good dunking in the well would do him good... _Oh well, it’s not going to hurt him._  

 

“But you’re going to be part of the government, right?” Aladdin presses. “At least? Like, the first minister or something?”

 

"Oh, well, yeah! And while Sinbad is in charge, he's gonna teach me all of these wartime tactics and stuff as one of his generals…" Alibaba trails off when he feels something seeming to _loom_ over him, and upon slowly turning--

 

He _shrieks_ , leaping nearly out of his skin and immediately grabbing for his sword. Judal lets himself smirk then, and ah, it just takes a liiiittle bit more manipulation to make the thing wail and moan like it's in agony. 

 

Aladdin should _really_ put a stop to this, he shouldn’t laugh, but just the idea of Alibaba agreeing so easily to be one of Sinbad’s _generals_ , the fact that Alibaba has apparently not listened to a single thing Aladdin’s told him about Sinbad in the last five years, the fact that even now after having his country taken away from him by a ball-and-cup game…

 

It doesn’t take a _lot_ of rukh to flick the lock on the door.

 

"It's mine, by the way," Judal offers with a lazy yawn, flopping forward to nuzzle into the crook of Aladdin's neck. "So it won't die so easily. Go, Black Djinn, wreck havoc." He should probably make more of an attempt to sound enthusiastically maniacal or something.

 

"Aladdin! How can you just sit there and let him make these things?!" Alibaba is as white as a sheet, sweating and clearly just shy of panicking. "I-is it--is it because of how I decided to handle Balbadd? I thought you, of all people, would understand--"

 

The 'djinn' roars something that sounds suspiciously like _Alibabaaaaa, heelpp meeee_. Judal watches as Alibaba quite nearly bolts out the window and off the balcony, the puppet close at his heels. 

 

“Enough,” Aladdin finally manages to say, not quite able to be that bad a friend. “If he goes out the window I’ll have to catch him and I wanna use my magoi on healing.”

 

"Ahh, but look at his face, he's gonna cry," Judal mildly points out, even as he sighs and dissipates the puppet with a flick of his hand. Alibaba nearly collapses where he's standing. 

 

Aladdin rolls slowly out of bed, wrapping the sheet around his shoulders again, kneeling down to pat Alibaba on the head. “It’s okay, it’s just an illusion. I _told_ you, Judal doesn’t make bad things anymore.”

 

"… That looked pretty bad," is the weak little response to follow.

 

Judal thinks he's probably supposed to feel some remorse. Too bad he doesn't. "I actually still know how to make them--"

 

"See?!" Alibaba shrilly insists. 

 

Judal rolls his eyes and flops back down into the blankets, more annoyed that he has lost his warm, breathing pillow than anything.

 

“Alibaba,” Aladdin says firmly, “please calm down. I said I’d keep you safe as much as I can, right? Do you trust me?” Really, if anyone has a bone to pick, it shouldn’t be Alibaba.

 

"I--yes, but--" Alibaba's gaze flickers back to Judal warily. "That doesn't mean I trust _him_." 

 

"Give it a rest, Fattybloba--" 

 

"Hey!"

 

"Sorry, you're right. You aren't fat anymore. Must be all the famine." Judal rolls onto his stomach, examining his nails. "Anyway, haven't you heard? My job is 'healbitch' nowadays. Boring as hell, but I don't _have_ the black rukh to go around tormenting you, so chill out."

 

Aladdin stands, then flops heartily back onto the bed, wiggling under the blankets and, more importantly, his human blanket. “I trust him,” he says simply. “Look, he fixed my hair and everything.”

 

"You're sleeping with him." It's rather accusatory. 

 

"Someone sounds jealous."

 

Alibaba gapes. "I'm not! I just--I never thought--it's _weird_ and _I_ still don't trust you." 

 

"Skinnybloba," Judal muses underneath his breath, "doesn't have the same ring to it. Somebaba."

 

"… If there's nothing else, I'm going," Alibaba grumpily mutters, picking himself up off the floor.

 

Aladdin sits up, confused and a little hurt. “Is it that bad a thing?” he asks, fingers curling in Judal’s hair, the other hand coming up to rest gently over Judal’s mouth. _Shh, I’m trying to have a conversation._ “I know _you_ don’t like sex very much, but…”

 

"Who said I don't like sex?!" Maybe he did. A couple of times. _To cover the fact I don't get a lot of it, dammit._ "I--look, it's just _weird_. He tried to kill you how many times, exactly?" 

 

Judal idly flicks his tongue out to lick Aladdin's palm. 

 

Aladdin giggles, playfully tweaking Judal’s nose. “I just figured you didn’t like it that much because you don’t _have_ very much of it. And ummm, I don’t think he’s tried to kill me that many times?” He shrugs. “He tried to kill Sinbad a lot more and no one thinks it’s weird that _they’re_ doing it. Right, Judal?”

 

Judal bites this time, nibbling on a finger thoughtfully. "Mmnn. Freckles sometimes did, but he had no room to talk."

 

"… I'm leaving," Alibaba deadpans, moving toward the door.

 

"Whatever happened to that girl? Morg… something."

 

"Morgiana!"

 

"Yeah! I was pretty sure she'd be crushing your head between her thighs by now--"

 

The door slams behind Alibaba, and Judal tries not to choke on a laugh. "Too far, maybe."

 

Aladdin’s face falls, though he doesn’t pull his hand away. Judal had no way of knowing, after all. “Maybe it’s better if you don’t bring Mor up. She went to the Dark Continent to find her homeland, and…” He sighs. “Just don’t bring it up to Alibaba, okay? He still misses her a _lot_.”

 

"Sounds like he missed his chance, then," Judal sniffs, grabbing at Aladdin's wrist to kiss his palm before mouthing his way up another finger. "And people say I'm an idiot. At least I go after what I want."

 

Aladdin shivers under the treatment, suddenly remembering that they’d been kissing, and it had been good, doing more to drive away the memories than anything else. “I don’t think you’re an idiot,” he says truthfully, curling his finger slowly against Judal’s tongue. “I...wow, you’re always so hot inside, I always forget.”

 

 _You're one of the few, then._ Judal's eyes lid, and he sucks Aladdin's finger further into his mouth, wrapping his tongue around it with a slow, heated breath through his nose. "You're not allowed to forget," he grumbles as he lets Aladdin's finger slide away with a slick pop, and he lazily nibbles on the tip of it. "Should just stay in bed with me all day."

 

“Okay.”

 

Aladdin probably agrees a little too easily, but part of his mind rebels against that thought. What is he going to do, try and convince Alibaba to take over Balbadd? He’s already given it away, and this time to someone who doesn’t intend to give it back, no matter what Alibaba thinks.

 

Aladdin pushes all of that out of his mind. Even if _he_ didn’t need this, Judal probably does, and that’s good enough reason. He nestles down, breathing out, “I like it when you remind me,” before meeting Judal’s lips with his own.

 

Judal figures he should apologize for Sinbad being the opportunist that he is--but, well, if Aladdin didn't know about that by now, what more is there to say? Better is kissing him, pawing at Aladdin's hair and tugging him close again, all while squirming his way up against him. "I'm not getting up unless they make me," he murmurs. "Or, well. If you wanna move to the real bed. But here is fine." 

 

“Wherever you are,” Aladdin sighs, closing his eyes and wrapping his arms around Judal, wrapping his legs around him too. “I sleep better when you’re around than any other time. Hey…” He pulls away slightly, blinking at a potted plant in the corner. “I don’t remember that well, but wasn’t that dying yesterday?”

 

"… Probably more rukh stuff," Judal guesses, butting his head up underneath Aladdin's chin as he tangles their limbs together. "So much of it in one place probably makes things act weird. Or you know, not die, in this case."

 

“Hmm. We should probably be more careful.” Aladdin doesn’t want to be more careful. He wants to cuddle up like this for the foreseeable future, keeping his hands and mouth and everything busy making both of them as comfortable as possible. “Though...I guess not-dying is good?”

 

"As long as we aren't bringing _people_ back to life, I guess it's fine. I don't think white rukh can really do that, anyway… and black rukh can only make shells, honestly." Judal hums into Aladdin's shoulder thoughtfully. "If anything, we should be careful for _your_ sake. The last time we had sex, you were pretty out of it afterwards," he teases. 

 

Aladdin rolls them slowly to the side, ending up more or less on top of the older man. “That’s just because you’re really good at sex,” he says frankly, without a hint of embarrassment. “I bet I could make _you_ pretty out of it if I tried.”

 

"If you try any harder, I might die," Judal sighs, sounding far from adverse to the idea. He languidly flops his arms over Aladdin. "Between you and Sinbad…" 

 

“Hmm, you want to be between me and Sinbad again already?” Aladdin teases, nuzzling into Judal’s shoulder, nipping lightly at his skin no matter how he’d asked for gentleness less than an hour before. “You seemed _really_ out of it after that.”

 

"That…" A little, rumbling purr interrupts his train of thought, and Judal rolls his head back, tugging Aladdin's hair to guide his mouth to his throat. "That was really good," he agrees, lidding his eyes. "I'd do that again any time. Or something like it… maybe with you in my mouth next time."

 

Aladdin grins, nibbling up along Judal’s neck, tugging at one earlobe with his teeth as his hands slide down Judal’s sides, gripping his waist. “I like being in your mouth. But...I don’t know, you’re pretty crazy when someone’s inside you. What if you bite me?”

 

"I'm better than that," Judal insists on a huff, wriggling within Aladdin's grasp. "If you're that worried, Sinbad can be in my mouth instead."

 

“Oh, you’ve done this before?” Aladdin nips harder this time, knowing he’ll leave a bruise just under the jut of Judal’s chin. “I should have known. I don’t think many people could take that much cock at once. I should have guessed you’d had practice.”

 

_"Most people," is the breathy croon in his ear, and everything hurts, hurts, hurts, "can't take this much cock at once. But you're a good kitty, aren't you? You must have been practicing while you've been gone. You'll go back to being the Kou Empire's whore in no time."_

 

Judal shivers, turning his head aside as he half-buries it into a pillow. "Maybe I'll just stick to you for awhile, though," he murmurs, thankful, at least, that he's able to keep the shake out of his voice. Ah, this is dumb. It's never bothered him before. 

 

 _The Kou Empire never treated you like that before. You were their whore, but you were_ just _their whore, not tossed to just anyone, and you sort of_ liked it. 

 

He really is an idiot. 

 

"Can you…" _Get off of me, off off off._ "I don't… want to do this right now." 

 

Aladdin senses the change in the rukh before Judal speaks, and he climbs off, sitting back on his heels on the other side of the bed, a worried look on his face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it,” he says, though the words sound flat to his own ears. Judal _knows_ he doesn’t mean anything, he should have thought before he talked, not said things that weren’t good and happy and comforting.

 

_Stupid, Aladdin. Just when you thought you’d figured people out._

 

"I know, it's really not you." Judal forces a smile as he pushes himself up. It's not any easier to breathe without Aladdin's warmth against him, not like he thought it would be. "Just… ahh, this is dumb," he mumbles, looking irritably to the side before scooting over and dropping his head onto Aladdin's shoulder. "It's never bothered me before. Kouha just… he has a way of making everything into something horrible and knows just how to make everything hurt and I've never _really_ … had to do it with someone that I didn't want to before." Except he can remember being a scared fourteen year old, Kouen looking put out and annoyed with Al-Sarmen's orders, less than thrilled about having to bed the Magi they promised him and making it far more a _chore_ than any luxury to lie with a prince. "Not like that. They were always…" _Careful?_ That's a good word for it.

 

Having Judal nestled up against him makes it a little better, makes it feel a little less like he’s ruined everything by opening his mouth. His hand comes up to gently pet at Judal’s hair, resting his chin on the top of Judal’s head. “It’s not dumb. I don’t...I don’t mind if you’re upset, you know.” He swallows hard, a tremulous smile on his lips. “It, uh, wasn’t easy for me either. You’re not weak or anything.”

 

"No, I'm just dumb." Judal shoves his face into Aladdin's neck with a tired huff. "Sorry. I ruined it, I shouldn't have brought it up at all. There's… just no one else to really talk to." 

 

“You didn’t ruin _anything_. We’re just...it’s okay to talk about it, I think. I don’t mind. Unless...is this one of those things that I’m not supposed to talk about?” Aladdin frowns, trying to remember if Alibaba had said anything of the sort. “There are a lot, I forget what they all are sometimes. But I don’t mind if you don’t.”

 

"… Probably not with most people," Judal quietly says. "I don't… not with Sinbad, even. And I won't, it's better if most people don't know." 

 

“Okay.” Aladdin rubs a hand up and down Judal’s back, gathering him closer as long as he doesn’t protest. “You know _I_ won’t tell anyone. So...go ahead. Your rukh is getting all weird, you might as well just say it all.”

 

"I can't." Judal's mouth twists wryly, and he flops himself forward against Aladdin's chest. "I don't remember most things. I remember that I declared war on Sindria once, though. Al-Sarmen made me forget afterwards, because it was too soon, even though Kouen was happy about it." 

 

“They made you forget stuff? I didn’t know regular magicians could do that kind of thing.” Aladdin starts idly braiding little strands of hair, knowing how Judal relaxes when he does that. “Do you think they did it a lot?”

 

"All the time." Judal sighs, chin propping on top of Aladdin's shoulder as his eyes lid. "Black rukh can do a lot of weird things… I remember feeling like I was drunk on it, sometimes. Especially when it's used to heal things too fast… ugh, like that time here in Balbadd when we first met."

 

“You _were_ acting really weird,” Aladdin admits. “But it was the first time I met you so I just thought you were a terrible person who liked hurting everyone. I thought you _hated_ Sinbad.”

 

"… I wasn't good at flirting in public, back then."

 

That startles a laugh out of Aladdin, and he nuzzles down, kissing Judal’s hair a few times. “You’re a _lot_ better at it now. I usually know whether you want me in bed or you want me dead.”

 

"When have I wanted you dead in recent memory?" Judal grumbles, giving Aladdin's shoulder a brief gnaw. 

 

“Well, you don’t flirt with me much in public either,” Aladdin points out, easing the sheet entirely off his shoulder to give Judal more skin to play with. “Hey, I just thought of something. Is that because you want to keep this a secret? I will if you want to. I can tell Alibaba to be quiet about it.”

 

Judal's head tilts, eyes lidding in thought. "Not really," he says, thumbing the jut of Aladdin's collarbone before he tips his head down to press his lips to it. "It's not that. It's more… hmm. For awhile, I thought Ja'far would be mad. But then he found out, and didn't say anything. Then I was worried, when you came back, about Sinbad--just a little, though. Then _he_ obviously didn't care… now I guess… I don't know. I don't care if anyone else knows, really; it's more about appearances for Sindria, but I don't even know if that matters that much because you're a Magi, not another king or something…" 

 

“Alibaba got really upset, though.” Even if he’d been making fun of his king at the time, it still sort of _bothers_ him. “I don’t know why, though. It could have been because you’re a man, or because he’s not getting a lot of sex, or because you did that stuff to his old friend, or because...I really don’t know. I guess I’m a little worried someone will try and make your life hard for it.”

 

"Because of his old boyfriend, definitely," Judal answers with a roll of his eyes. "And because he's not getting any. He's jealous and afraid of me. He'll get over it. If it's because I'm a man… well, he's a hypocrite. What does he think of Sinbad and Ja'far?" A pause, and Judal tries not to smirk. He fails miserably. "Or does he even _know?_ "

 

“I think most people don’t know about them. They work pretty hard for that, you know? Or more like...they don’t have to. It’s not like they kiss in public. And, well, Sinbad is kind of like that with everyone.” Is it even possible to get jealous about Sinbad? Aladdin doubts it. It sounds like a stupid way to live.

 

"I dunno, they've always been pretty obvious to me," Judal sighs, annoyance briefly flickering over his face. "It's the way they look at one another, mostly. But anyway, if Alibaba's like _that_ , then kick him in the balls and tell him to get over it." 

 

“Huh. Do you think he _is_ like that? He says he really likes girls, but he doesn’t go home with them really at all…” Aladdin frowns, trying to remember the last time--and even when they have gone out to brothels, Alibaba _does_ somehow wind up with a woman who looks, uh, considerably more _mannish_ than the ones Aladdin flops onto.

 

"… Maybe," Judal slowly, wickedly deduces, "he has a huuuge crush on you, and he's mad that you're in bed with _me_ and not _him_."

 

Aladdin’s eyes go wide. “Oh, _no_! If he does--then I’ve been really rude, always having sex with girls all the time--and sometimes in front of him! I should probably apologize, shouldn’t I?”

 

Judal wonders if he should stop teasing right now before it gets any worse. No. No, he _can't_. It's too funny. "Nah, he probably likes watching and imagining it's him. But with me--see, I'm a threat, because I'm _also_ a guy."

 

“But I don’t _want_ to stop doing it with you!” Aladdin worries at his lip, looking between Judal and the closed door. Alibaba had seemed _so upset_ , and if that’s his own fault, he’s really an awful Magi, isn’t he? “Maybe this is why he hasn’t become king. Maybe it’s because he wants me by his side like you’re at Sinbad’s--oh no, it all makes sense!”

 

 _God_ , it's hard not to start sputtering. Being around Ja'far for so long has at least taught him how to pokerface a bit better, though, and so he manages a solemn nod. "It really does, doesn't it?"

 

Aladdin makes a distressed little noise, and starts yanking away the blankets. “I have to go talk to him. If this whole thing is because I’m a terrible Magi, then _everything that happened_ is my fault.”

 

Ahhh, leave it to Aladdin to take it a step too far. "Okay, okay, it was a _joke_ , I was teasing you, geez." No fun after all, dammit. Judal grabs him back, wrapping him back up in a sheet. "Even if he _did_ want to stick it in you, that'd be the end of it. Seriously. It has nothing to do with you being a bad Magi, it has everything to do with him being a damned pussy that doesn't know where to put it." Judal snorts, rolling his eyes. "But he's definitely only into girls, boring. If he hates me, it's because I'm pretty and I confuse him when his cock gets hard."

 

Aladdin sinks down slowly, even if he does make a face at Judal’s words, and squirms around with a huff. “What do you mean, stick it in me? I don’t want that. And come to think of it, I _have_ offered to teach him sex like I taught him kissing. I guess if he really liked me he’d have wanted to.” He gives Judal’s hair a tug. “You’re mean.”

 

"Sorrrrry," Judal laughs, leaning into the tug with a grin. "It was just _there_ , so I had to. And he'd _definitely_ want to stick it in you, guys that like girls usually only like it that way."

 

“Gross,” Aladdin grumbles, giving Judal’s shoulder a sharp nip with his teeth. “You have to start being a little nicer to him, okay? Not a lot, but he is my king. Just don’t...make him think that you’ll kill him in his sleep or anything.”

 

"… But it's fun. And he makes funny faces when he's freaked out," Judal sighs. "I guess we can just kiss in front of him more, he makes the same ones."

 

Aladdin will probably have to go and apologize later, he knows. Alibaba can be really sensitive, especially when it’s about his pet project to make Balbadd into a republic, and Aladdin sort of doubts he’s done too much thinking about the consequences of becoming one of Sinbad’s generals yet. “Yeah, okay.”

 

As he cuddles closer, the rukh flutter. The plant on the bedside table throws out a flower bud.


	18. Chapter 18

 

Sinbad hates being an invalid.

 

He can’t deny that he _is_ one, even if he’d somehow summoned the energy to have that conversation with Alibaba the day before, and gone to check on the Magi some point later. It’s hard to feel jealous about Judal when he and Aladdin are so cute, so _cuddly_ together, so...not unhappy. There’s more than enough unhappiness going around.

 

Still, he’d been loathe to pull them off each other to tend to his wounds, and it had cost him. Now his legs hurt worse than ever. Even if Judal had fixed most of his knee the first day, it still grinds horribly when he tries to walk up and down stairs, and he’s decided that rest is the better part of valor, just now.

 

It’s just a shame he’s so _bored_. 

 

Being bored turns to memories, memories even of this very room, and a wild night when he’d let King Abbas’s favorite whore paint his face and dump him in this bed. Memory turns to thought, and why doesn’t Ja’far ever bring him pretty presents. Ah, but Ja’far is always enough of a present, with his soft hands and tiny smile and those _freckles_ and his thighs--so warm when they’re wrapped around him, squishy in his grip, and it seems like every time he _looks_ at Ja’far he can think of yet another part he hasn’t rubbed against yet.

 

 _At least my hand still works_ , he thinks ruefully, relaxing back against his pillow, taking himself in hand to the mental images.

 

Ja'far, on the other hand, would relish a chance for sleep.

 

There's none to be had, not with all of the tasks he has to complete, and for not the first time, he regrets not bringing Masrur along. Then again, attempting to _sneak_ anywhere with a Fanalis is nigh impossible, so scratch that regret. Nevertheless, he wishes he and Masrur now to divide a bit of work between, as he's left running stressed at every turn, and ah, god, it's been a few hours since he's checked on Sinbad, he should do that now.

 

A short knock is all he allows himself before pushing open the door. "Sin, how are you? I did manage to retrieve your luggage earlier, so at least--" 

 

Ah. 

 

His eyes twitch down before he can catch himself, even as Ja'far immediately makes to turn on his heel. "I'll leave you to that." It's far from the first time he's walked in on something like this, and it doesn't bother him--it's more a relief that Sinbad isn't grabbing at _him_ , honestly.

 

Sinbad blinks up at Ja’far, not chagrined in the least to be caught red-handed. It actually _helps_ , to see Ja’far, and he at least gives him the courtesy of pausing in his movements for a moment. “Ah, Ja’far. You’re welcome to stay.” He knows he sounds rather hopeful, and just in case--yes, Ja’far looks quite busy--he adds, “You don’t have to, but you’re welcome to. It would do me good to look at you.”

 

One of these days, maybe Sinbad will acquire a bit of shame (doubtful). Ja'far sighs, turning back to _look_ at him. "I'm not putting my mouth on it, before you ask," he bluntly replies.

 

Ja’far is probably the only person whose scorn makes Sinbad harder. Not always, but under the circumstances, there’s something sort of alluring about it. He squeezes, starting to stroke slowly again. “No worries. I just like to look at you, if you don’t mind.”

 

Normally, he'd scoff and shut the door in Sinbad's face.

 

 _Normally_ , Sinbad hasn't nearly died.

 

(Also, it's the tiniest bit flattering.)

 

A quiet, defeated sigh, and Ja'far shuts the door as he steps back inside instead. At least a few moments off of his feet will be nice--it isn't as if this will take all day. "All right," he relents, and lightly drops himself to the edge of the bed. "Just looking." 

 

Just this act in and of itself, with how _lewd_ it is with Ja’far consenting to be watched, is enough to make his cock ache and twitch. He runs his eyes over Ja’far as if it’s his hands, over his face, down his neck, imagining the body under those robes. “It’s like every time I see you I find some part I haven’t loved fully yet,” he murmurs. “Come a little closer? Just so I can see your freckles.”

 

"I'm fairly certain you've been all over every part of me at least once," Ja'far mutters, but scoots closer all the same, and he _might_ be humoring Sinbad just a bit more than usual by letting one shoulder of his robe slink down, giving him an eyeful of the heavy pattern of freckles that decorates his skin there, too. 

 

Sinbad hisses out a breath at just that much exposed skin, stroking a little faster, squeezing at the base of the head, his own fingers just barely good enough. “Not the way I want to. Not as much as I want to.” His eyes flash, and his hips twitch up against his palm. “Your hair, for example.”

 

Ja'far's eyebrows arch high. "My hair?" he echoes, hardly expecting _that_. "What about it?" Because he _knows_ Sinbad wants him to ask.

 

“It looks like silk, all moonlight silk, and I know how soft it is in my fingers and on my face.” A grin curls the corner of his lips, and he looks down pointedly between his fingers  now. “I wonder if it would be that soft everywhere.”

 

Ah. That's definitely new. "… I'm sure there are better things to wrap around your cock. My hair isn't even that long." 

 

“It’s really not,” Sinbad agrees, sliding his hand down, up, down, imagining the silky-soft glide of what it probably doesn’t even feel like. “You’d have to...really get close.”

 

Humoring him a little bit more couldn't hurt, just this once.

 

"… Do you really want to try it that badly?" Ja'far shifts a bit closer, head tipping to the side. "I don't think you're going to like it as much as you think you will."

 

It’s such an odd fantasy, even for Sinbad, that he can’t help but give a rueful grin, eyes tracing the fall of Ja’far’s hair with great interest. “I’ll always enjoy anything with you. It’s got to be more interesting than my hand, right?”

 

Ja'far rolls his eyes. "Somehow I doubt that," he murmurs, moving to kneel between Sinbad's legs, hesitantly splaying his hands over the man's thighs. Leaning down, Sinbad's cock is so _close_ that his skin can't help but heat, and his eyes flick to the side with a hot, uneven exhale. "But if you're that curious…"

 

Just now, Sinbad is far _more_ than curious. He burns for it, licking suddenly dry lips, letting go of his cock to twist in those soft strands, bringing them down to rub along the skin of his cock. 

 

Ah. Hmm. That’s certainly... _interesting_. Better than the odd slippery friction of the individual hairs sliding along him is the _closeness_ of Ja’far, kneeling between his legs, lowering his head so Sinbad can better rut against him, and there’s nothing about _that_ Sinbad doesn’t find attractive. “Good,” he breathes, hand speeding up. “Better than good.”

 

Ja'far's right, of course; his hair really isn't long enough for this, and far better suited would be someone like _Judal_. The tug on his hair makes him lower his head more, and he bites his lip as Sinbad's cock slides hot and sticky against his cheek, rubbing against his face more so than being wrapped within his hair, and his eyes lid, skin flushing hot. "You're really… just a pervert," he breathes. Then again, he's not much better, _letting_ Sinbad do all of these things.

 

Sinbad’s cock twitches, rubbing against the side of Ja’far’s face, leaving a sticky trail behind as he thrusts up, at least as much as his injuries will allow. “Yeah,” he agrees without remorse, tightening his grip as his cock throbs. “Scold me again.”

 

 _So it's like that._ Ja'far huffs, one eye squeezing shut as Sinbad ruts against the side of his face. "A filthy pervert," he mutters, his fingers digging into Sinbad's thighs. "If you weren't already so pathetic, laid up in bed all day, I'd come in here and kick you around a bit--though you'd probably like that, too, knowing you." 

 

Ah, god, Sinbad hadn’t expected Ja’far to actually do it. The words go straight to his cock, and he groans, other hand coming up to rest on his head, holding him still as Sinbad rubs shamelessly against his face. He can’t help but imagine it, the picture Ja’far paints, those lovely, delicate feet walking all over him--

 

He’s discovering all _kinds_ of new fetishes he has today. Odd, he’d thought he’d already thoroughly perverted himself as far as Ja’far was concerned. “As long as it’s you. Would you like that, me getting hard for you while you’re being so cruel?”

 

"Don't you do it every day anyway?" Ja'far snidely retorts, and he twists his head slightly, a half-hearted attempt at resistance even though it only makes his lips drag against the side of Sinbad's cock. "You'd probably even like it if I stepped on you here." 

 

Well, that’s the end of it.

 

Sinbad’s honestly surprised he’s lasted this long, and groans as he comes, fingers twisting in Ja’far’s hair, spilling across his face, cheeks, lips, all to drip down to his chest, collapsing shuddering back onto the bed. “Of course,” he pants, “I’d like it. I like...god, everything with you.”

 

Ja'far flinches back, gingerly lifting a hand to wipe it over his face. Ah, well. He wanted a bath, anyway… "You're the worst pervert imaginable," he grumbles, though it sounds more affectionately put out than anything. "Also, lesson learned. You can never just _look_ , can you?" 

 

“You act like I grabbed you and dragged you over here,” Sinbad protests. “Or ordered you. Or did something besides touch myself and say your hair looked soft. Take _some_ responsibility.”

 

"No, it's definitely all your fault," Ja'far matter-of-factly concludes as he pushes himself upright, deliberately wiping his hand on the hem of Sinbad's tunic. 

 

Sinbad grins. “If I keep accepting that it’s all my fault will you keep doing lewd things? I want to rub off on your feet next time.”

 

"… Of course you'd like _that_ idea," is the wry mutter to follow. "Anything else I should know about?" 

 

“Oh, probably. I’ll let you know next time I find some unexplored new territory.” Sinbad shivers, stretching out against the bed. “That sharp tongue of yours was an unexpected pleasure.”

 

"You've _always_ liked that, especially if I'm grabbing you and shaking you. Weird," Ja'far says with a roll of his eyes, giving into the urge to simply flop down at his side for the moment. "On a more serious note--what you _need_ to do is let me pull Judal in here and let him heal you properly already. I can hear your joints cracking from across the room."

 

Sinbad waves a hand, though even _that_ hurts now that Ja’far’s reminded him. “I’ll keep. He’s fine where he is. I almost went and got him, but…” He shrugs, a little helpless. “They’re just sort of like a couple of kittens.”

 

"You won't keep if the Kou Empire's military shows up at our doorstep," Ja'far argues, scolding for real this time. "Yes, they're like kittens, and it's very cute, but I won't have you languishing in bed and in pain when it's all a very simple fix."

 

Sinbad’s nose wrinkles. Ja’far has a point, even if it’s an obnoxious point. “Fine, fine. You may _ask_ him to come and tend to me, _when he’s not busy_. For all I know they’re making some sort of magic barrier over Balbadd in there. Besides,” he adds, perking up a bit, “I don’t need to be in fighting shape for Kouen. I have his brothers, thanks to a master of assassination who just happens to be my chief clerk.”

 

"Considering how their familial loyalties have been wavering lately, I wouldn't put all of your hopes on that," Ja'far warns as he pushes himself upright. "Killing Hakuryuu… and there are rumors, my spies have told me, of finally having married Kougyoku off." 

 

Sinbad sits bolt upright at that. It’s one of the worse mistakes he’s made in life, and his face goes white as a sheet at the sudden spasm in his back. He swallows hard, trying to get enough breath back to speak, eyes watering in pain as he falls slowly to the side. Through clenched teeth, he hisses, “Ju...dal….or...walk...on...me…”

 

"Can you _please_ think things through more carefully? You know, simple things, like _moving?_ " Immediately, Ja'far shoves him over onto his stomach, shoes kicked off as he simply stands up on the mattress and then firmly digs his heel into the small of Sinbad's back. "You're going to give _me_ a heart attack.You're such a mess…" Another sigh, and the next shove of his foot is a bit gentler as he all but realigns Sinbad's spine. "At any rate, they're just rumors. It's just best to regard them as truth and plan accordingly until we know. What country has sons that could marry her, anyway?" 

 

Sinbad lets out a long groan as the disc slips back into place, sending relief twitching through his nervous system with a thousand tiny shocks of pain now that he can breathe again. “Ah, if your spies--hnngh, _god_ \--reported it, it’s true. Ah...check on--yeah, right there--there are some budding countries to the East, maybe the really _far_ East or...no, she _wouldn’t_ …”

 

Ja'far pauses as he sets both feet down onto the middle of Sinbad's back, curling his toes. "She?" His eyebrows arch, and he slowly kneads his way up to Sinbad's shoulders, rocking back onto his heels. " _Laem?_ " It's the only logical conclusion.

 

“It’s the only logical conclusion,” Sinbad points out, an absolutely obscene moan coming from his mouth. “Can’t think of anyone else of a high enough status, unless there’s--ah, ah, gentle there, it’s still a big bruise--unless something’s happened in Arondia, there’s a corollary line, but Laem makes more sense, ah, what do we know about the boy?”

 

"One hell of a magician," Ja'far murmurs, stepping back with one foot to coax the last few vertebrae of Sinbad's spine to lie _properly_ before he kneads his toes in again. "I will have to ask Aladdin. I am fairly certain he's mentioned the name Titus before…" Finally, he drops down, straddling Sinbad's thighs to put his hands to work on the tense muscles along Sinbad's sides. "Any better?" 

 

Sinbad’s eyes slide shut, relaxing as Ja’far works him so skillfully. His hands are deft and strong, and Sinbad can’t help but enjoy the squeeze of Ja’far’s thighs around his own. “Mm, much. Ah, I think you’re right about Aladdin. I didn’t connect it at the time, she hadn’t acknowledged him publicly until that whole debacle a few years ago, right?”

 

"Sounds about right--I wouldn't be surprised if Aladdin had a large hand in all of that, to be honest," Ja'far wryly notes, slowly working out the last few kinks he can feel through Sinbad's back. "Perhaps that bodes well for us, then, assuming they are still on friendly terms. I can send a spy to Laem tonight."

 

Sinbad tries to remember, but Sindria had been plenty busy back then--ah, that’s right, Judal had just lost his magic. No wonder he remembers little of Aladdin’s stories. “I’m disappointed you don’t already have one there within contact. What’s gone wrong?”

 

An exasperated sigh quickly follows. "Scheherazade, what else," Ja'far mutters, digging the heels of his palms in perhaps a bit too roughly. "She senses deception within her ranks far too easily. Sending them there and _keeping_ them there for an extended period is worthless; that Fanalis of hers tears them to shreds the moment she puts her nose up in the air. So much for pacifism."

 

Sinbad grits his teeth. “Should have known. How many times have I offered to make an alliance with her now?” Ja’far will remember better than he will. Sinbad only remembers the bitter disappointment.

 

"Twenty seven times prior to Judal, fourteen after that, and then she told you if you sent another message, she would start making a public spectacle of burning them." Ja'far lets out a deep breath, pulling his hands back before he can get _far_ too rough. "I don't think she's ever realized they are _my_ spies, at least. But… I have a few waiting within a day's travel, so it shouldn't be terribly difficult to send them in. If nothing else, it will confirm the rumor." 

 

“I want more than that. I want his loyalties, his ties to people other than Scheherezade, his relationship with her, his preferences, the full workup. Anything we can use.” He asks the impossible, and frequently. Ja’far nearly always delivers.

 

"I will see what can be done." Ja'far flops forward, chin resting atop one of Sinbad's shoulders. "In the meantime, I can also ask Aladdin."

 

“Quietly. If they are still good friends, and the boy is as strong a magician as you say, they could easily have a way of communicating. Use your friendship with Aladdin, you know what I want,” he ends with a grin, hand coming up to stroke through Ja’far’s hair.

 

Ja'far's eyes roll. "I know how to talk to the boy, rest assured."

 

“I urge caution, nothing more. Aladdin…” Sinbad huffs out a breath, ruffling his own hair. “He sees through me when I would wish he did not.”

 

"Why do you bother trying to lie to a Magi?" Ja'far half-buries his face into the back of Sinbad's head. "It doesn't work. It's why he has always been wary of you." 

 

Sinbad’s eyes slide shut, and he nestles back, lips curving in pleasure. “I’m not used to people seeing through me. It’s habit to be a bit of a showman. The only person I don’t lie to is you.”

 

"So I have noticed." Ja'far plucks at a strand of Sinbad's hair, exhaling a long sigh against his skin. "That's fine, of course. But don't be surprised when Aladdin gives you that skeptical look of his. You do it to Judal, too; he's just too… smitten… to call you on it." 

 

Sinbad thinks back to the pile of Magi-kittens in the other room, and raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know. I think he might be smiting someone else before too long.” His hand drops down, squeezing Ja’far’s hand. “I hope you don’t mind if that leaves me with more free time to spend with you.”

 

"After all that work, and you're going to let someone else steal your Magi away?" Ja'far snorts, even as he gives Sinbad's hand a little squeeze back. "I will believe it when I see it." 

 

Sinbad snorts. “And if he doesn’t mind spending a night away from me without pouting and looking sad? Will you be sorry to see him stop throwing temper tantrums whenever I go drinking with Sharrkan and Hinohoho?”

 

"Considering I just lock him up in a bedroom and let him cry it out if he wants to act like a five year old, it doesn't really bother me either way."

 

Sinbad flops down onto the bed. “That’s cruel. You won’t do that with our children, will you?”

 

Ja'far snorts. _I have, and I would again,_ he thinks dryly. "It's the best way, often enough."

 

“Cruel, too cruel.” Sinbad nestles down, eyes sliding closed, thumb stroking slowly over the back of Ja’far’s hand. “This is why they’ll always torment me for sweets.”

 

"Put your foot down once in awhile," Ja'far sighs out with a shake of his head, curling his fingers slowly beneath Sinbad's touch. Ah, there's so much work to be done--but he supposes he can stay until Sinbad falls asleep again, at least. "You say _I_ spoil them too much…"

 

“‘sokay,” Sinbad mumbles, already half-asleep. “If they eat too much I’ll just...make ‘em run.”

 

"Yes, yes, I know." Ja'far leans over, pressing an absent kiss to Sinbad's brow. "They're not fat right now, though. I'll work on that later. Until then, get some sleep."

 

~~

 

Laem isn't really what Sphintus expects. 

 

Then again, what _is_ the same anymore, what with all the political turmoil and wars brewing? It's safer, his father had told him, for Sphintus to be here, even if Sindria is calmer and quieter. Sphintus knows _why_ \--his father doesn't want two members of his family in the same place, lest something happen to one. It's political conservation at its finest. 

 

And if anywhere is safe, it's certainly Laem, with it's fifteen million and a half guards at every turn. 

 

The _good news_ is that he has practically a free pass to the palace gates, courtesy of his father's messengers and the documents he carries in hand, never mind how some of the military rolls their eyes when they take one look at him and mutter _Heliohapt_ underneath their breath. Whatever. It's nothing new. Kukulcan wants to bite them, and Sphintus gently chides him in return, making sure he saves it for when he actually _needs_ to bite and hurt. 

 

He remembers when he was a lot, lot younger, and Heliohapt's palace was less in shambles and more _beautiful_ , just like this. Too bad he knows it'll be a small miracle to ever see it like that again. 

 

Not many people talk to Titus when he retreats to his rooms. Most of his information, what he doesn’t get from briefings with Lady Scheherezade, comes from overhearing the servants’ conversations. It reminds him a bit of being young, hearing them pass bits of information to each other with the assistance of listening spells, hearing them whisper  to each other about the poor sickly boy, what a shame the Lady had such plans for him. He hadn’t cared. He’d had the magic, and no one had bothered him except to teach. No one had tried to make his rooms pretty, for gods’ sakes. 

 

No one had whispered something about _Heliohapt, just arrived_.

 

He’d made the maids squeak when he barreled past them, obviously surprising them with his very existence, pausing just long enough to make himself presentable--and then again, just a bit _more_ presentable, yes, that’s good enough, it might not even _be_ Sphintus, don’t get your hopes up--before dashing into the main palace, wind speeding his feet along.

 

He’s breathing hard, cheeks flushed pink by the time he makes it into the Gathering Hall, just as a minor official is saying something about treaties, pacts, and mutual beneficial something or another. 

 

Then a snake’s head bobs into view, and Titus has to swallow hard. “Thank you, Breavan,” he calls to the man, waving him aside. “I’ll take charge of our esteemed visitor from here.”

 

_You came. I thought you never would._

 

Sphintus would recognize _that_ voice anywhere.

 

"Titus!" There's supposed to be some sort of royal decorum he follows, but how is he supposed to do that when Titus runs up all out of breath and flushed and damn, did he get _prettier?_ That shouldn't be allowed. Sphintus makes a valiant attempt to not just _grab him_ , and somehow manages, no matter how he wants to do otherwise. Kukulcan manages less, slithering off of his shoulders to the floor, all to wind his way about Titus's ankle. "It's been so long, I didn't even think I'd get to _see you!_ " Ah, the guards are staring now. Oh well.

 

A lifetime of training asserts itself, and not a second too soon. Titus had been on the urge of throwing himself at the other man, and only the eyes on them, weighing, judging, preparing mental reports to bring to his Lady, stop him. 

 

He almost loses it again at Kukulcan’s familiar cold scaly curl around his ankles, reaching down to give the snake an affectionate little pat on the head. Then he straightens up, schooling his expression as he’s been trained, and bows his head. “Prince of Heliohapt, honored visitor, on behalf of my Lady Scheherezade our most revered oracle, our Sun and Star, our Guiding Light, I, Titus Alexius, Empress’s First Magician, welcome you to the Abundant Empire of Laem. You are... _most_ welcome,” he adds, just a hint less formally.

 

Ah, right. Formalities. There _are_ those. Sphintus is usually pretty good at them, but it's _Titus_ , and so he has to think about it for a moment. "I am most grateful to be allowed within your beautiful empire. My father, the residing King of Heliohapt, sends his regards and thanks as well, and of course, while I am here, if my services may be of any use…" He trails off, watching as Kukulcan slinks higher up Titus's leg, winding about a thigh and constricting. _Damn it, you're a cobra, not a boa… not that I can blame you._

 

Titus realizes after a moment that the formalities _aren’t_ the researched speech he’d been forced to memorize, that Sphintus is _improvising_ , of all things, and that really shouldn’t be as cute as it is. He opens his mouth, then has to stop to catch his breath, flushing deeper as Kukulcan’s scales peek out through the gaps in his robes, and now all the guards are _staring_ again, and ah, combined with Sphintus’s no-doubt-innocent words about his aid, surely news of this will reach his Lady. He’ll just be lucky if it doesn’t reach the streets.

 

“I’m sure that your services will be gratefully appreciated,” he says, and if that isn’t a perfect opening, especially with Kukulcan’s sleek scales winding tightly around his upper thigh now, and _ah_ god it’s been a long time since he’s had Sphintus’s hand on his thighs…

 

He schools his face. “In fact, there is a small matter about which I’d like to speak to a man of your renown and caliber. You would be doing the Empire a great service. If you would follow me?”

 

"Yeah--I mean, yes, o-of course--" How the hell can Titus keep a straight face? He has half the mind to reach down and pull Kukulcan off, but then he'd be _really_ close to touching Titus and that's… bad… until they're behind a closed door. Sphintus swallows. No promises on decorum once that happens, for that matter.

 

Titus lasts until the door shuts before collapsing in a fit of giggles, building up the entire walk from the entrance chamber as he cautiously tugs at the snake. “Dear gods, get him off, I thought I was going to die out there! They’re going to say he’s your familiar!”

 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorryyyy!" He's not, not really, though it's a good chance to kneel down at Titus's feet and tug at the damned snake, who hisses and half-heartedly strikes at him. "Stop it, you brat, don't you have any manners?" Sphintus mutters, yanking him off finally and sending him slithering away to pout. Heaving a long sigh, Sphintus looks up at the other man, grinning wryly. "Sorry, for real though--I guess he missed you, too. And these," he adds, unable to stop himself from lifting a hand up to _pinch_ a bit of bare thigh.

 

Titus’s breath catches in a squeak, and he lurches forward, hands threading through Sphintus’s hair, both to encourage him and to _hold_ him there. “I missed you too,” he breathes, running his hands down, not able to stop himself from kneeling down, straddling Sphintus’s lap and yanking him in for a kiss, hungry and _needing_.

 

Ah. Well. Talk about a proper greeting.

 

Sphintus flops back into the wall with a little grunt, hands sliding down Titus's back to grab at his ass and _squeeze_ as he kisses him, nipping and sucking at his lips and groaning at the _taste_ of him. It's been _years_ since he's had his hands on Titus, since he's tasted him, and _no one_ is the same, not a single damn person. "You got even prettier," he breathes between kisses, turning his head aside to nuzzle into Titus's neck, lips parting to bite and suck. "That shouldn't be allowed."

 

It feels like the first time.

 

Not that Titus can’t remember the taste, the smell, the touch of Sphintus under his hands, wandering and clenching and running over hard, tanned muscles. More that he’s as nervous, as high-strung as the first time, more desperate, because he’d _never_ thought he’d have Sphintus between his thighs again, _inside_ him again, because it’s been years since anyone has wanted anything from him that he actually has to give, because any second his Lady could walk through his wards no matter how carefully he sets them up, and does just to keep him on his toes sometimes, and if anyone finds out, _anyone_ , it’ll be a hundred, a thousand times worse than it would have been back in Magnoshutt, and Laem will be at war with Kou, and--

 

Titus’s hands fist until his knuckles pop at Sphintus’s chest, his breathing heavy. “I don’t care,” he mutters, not really hearing anything Sphintus had said. “Need you. Fuck me, hurry, I need you.”

 

_Make me forget._

 

He'd expected Titus to miss him, to be a little excited at seeing him again, but not _this_. Sphintus's breath hiccups, and he contemplates suggesting that they move to a proper place, like a bed or, well, _anything else_ , but whatever. If Titus wants it that bad, who is he to argue? 

 

One shove sends Titus sprawling onto his back over the floor, and Sphintus yanks at his clothing, stripping him without hesitation. "Calm down," he does order underneath his breath, pressing another, lingering kiss to the arc of his throat, grabbing one tense, tight fist and rubbing his thumb over it. "I'm here. I'm going to take care of you, so calm down." 

 

And to think, people in his country say _he's_ high strung.

 

Not like this. _Nothing_ like this, where he's pretty sure if he didn't dig out that pot of aloe from his bags and have his fingers slick enough to be dripping, that there would be no way he'd be able to spread Titus's thighs and wriggle a single finger inside, let alone two in short order. "God," he breathes into Titus's neck, "have you not let anyone else touch you?" 

 

It’s possible Titus is wound a bit tight. 

 

He arches off the floor, thighs trembling as they part for Sphintus’s finger, his breath coming in rough, hitching gasps as he wriggles down, too fast and too big already and he wants so much _more_. 

 

He clutches at Sphintus, thighs spreading wider with every reassuring word, the sounds going straight to his cock, so hard already he _aches_. “N-not like this,” he pants, throat dry.

 

He grabs Sphintus’s tunic, suddenly wary. “Can you heal bruises? If not, no marks.” _If you can, eat me alive._

 

"What kind of healer would I be if I couldn't heal _bruises?_ " It reminds Sphintus of how he wants to just _maul him,_ and his addition to those words is a hard, sucking bite to the side of Titus's neck, a second, slick finger wriggling inside as he hisses out hot breath through his nose.

 

It's too much too fast and he _knows it_ , but there's no way he can wait, not when Titus is squirming like this and _wanting_ so badly. His hand drags away, grabbing for the aloe again as he pulls out his cock, and the slick slide of his hand is already almost too much. "You want me to take you like this?" Another, hard bite to Titus's shoulder follows, and ah, god, sliding up between those soft, warm thighs is _torture_. "Or you want me to shove your face into the floor and take you like a dog in your own palace?"

 

“Fuck me,” Titus begs, shameless and needy, almost _panicked_ with how much he craves it. Nothing has felt like this in years, nothing has made him feel simply _good_ , overwhelming and perfect and far, far too much, in the hands of someone he trusts. “I don’t care how, just _fuck me_ , I need you in me, Sphintus, _please_!”

 

His nails drag down Sphintus’s back, leaving long welts in their wake, probably blood trails. No one here understands him like Sphintus does, understands what he _needs_ , throws him around and calls him a slut and fucks him until he’s screaming like Sphintus does, and Titus wriggles down against him in near desperation. “Please,” he says again, some of the anxiety showing through.

 

He'll ask, later, about what has Titus so damnably high strung. He's _always_ a nervous wreck at best, but this is above and beyond, and if his own cock wasn't so hard and Titus wasn't wriggling so desperately underneath him, he'd probably think about stopping and telling him to calm down and at least properly _enjoy_ their first time together in years.

 

There's no time for that, though.

 

 _Better_ , is wrapping a slick hand around his own cock as he shoves Titus's legs open further, rubbing the dripping head of it against that tight, tight little hole, and as much as he likes shoving Titus down and grinding his face into the floor, he likes the drag of those sharp nails down his back even more. His fingers are leaving dark bruises on Titus's thighs, too, to hold him still at that first, aching push inside, and Sphintus sees white, panting and squeezing his eyes shut as he sinks inside as deep as he can, hands sliding up to grab at slender hips and _yank_ Titus down the rest of the way. "R-relax," he grinds out, sweat beading on his own brow. "Just… just a bit, or I can't--"

 

Titus can’t breathe. He gasps for air, trying to remember how he’d ever taken so much, how he’d managed to relax when everything is so tense and tight and _good_ , achingly full, almost _cramping_ he’s so full, rough hands yanking him around and forcing him down on that thick hard cock. “Can’t,” he groans, eyes closing as he _tries_ , legs trembling  as they wrap around Sphintus’s waist, pulling him in harder, deeper, no matter that it feels like he can’t take even this much. “F-fuck you’re too big, it’s too-- _god_ \--”

 

"Listen to you," Sphintus breathlessly laughs, even as his hands splay over Titus's hips, dragging down to those soft, soft thighs, and he shoves them back to bend Titus nearly in two, groaning as he slides his own knees up closer and shoves in hard. He's still too tight, pain-on-pleasure no matter how slick and hot, and Sphintus huffs out a fast, hard breath as he takes a bite at one slender shoulder. "So much for prim and proper now." Each shove of his cock is punishing at best, and _god_ , it feels good just to hold Titus down and _use him_. "That's all you're really good for, isn't it?" he pants out, and he can't help but slide his hands back up to Titus's waist and around to his lower back, gripping tightly and hissing when he can _feel_ the jut of his cock when it's shoved in so _deep_. "Just taking my cock."

 

 _If that isn’t the truest statement of the year I don’t know what is_ , Titus thinks almost grimly, but it goes to his cock all the same, too _much_ when he’s stuffed so full, stretched out and pounded into like he _loves_.

 

He’s too loud when he comes, loud and messy and _grateful_ , the low liquid heat at the base of his spine shooting out sparks to every part of him, and god, he should have told Sphintus to shove his face into the floor ( _fuck me like that next, fuck me like a dog, like a whore, like I’m just a hole for you, fuck me until they catch us_ ), at least something would have muffled his scream. 

 

“Give, give it to me,” he pants, blinking fast as stars burst in front of his eyes. “More more more, you know what I need, take what you want--”

 

"Damn right I know what you need," Sphintus breathlessly mutters, and even if he's loathe to pull out of that tight, tight heat, he does for the sake of flipping Titus over, fisting a hand into his hair and _yanking_ as he guides his cock back inside, muffling a deep groan of his own into Titus's back. "You're so hot inside. Do you have any idea… how good you feel?" Some of the tension is gone, and it's easier just to shove Titus down and _fuck him_ with long, hard thrusts, shoving in as deep as he can, grinding against the curve of Titus's ass just to hear him squeal and sob. 

 

He doesn't last, not for long--but that's predictable, when Titus is so desperate and needy and wiggly underneath him, and Sphintus shudders hard as he spills, shoved in as deep as he can and filing Titus even more, hot and slick and messy. "You're perfect," he gasps out, stroking a hand along Titus's spine. "Just… perfect, god, _look_ at you."

 

It’s been a long, long time since he’s heard words like that. 

 

Titus shudders, hands scrabbling against the floor, his heart slowly, slowly thudding its way back to normal speeds. He has a few blessed seconds where everything just feels good, and for that alone he would have funded Sphintus’s trip from Heliohapt out of his own pocket. 

 

Let alone how he feels too full and slick and he’s going to be dripping down his thighs, let alone the warmth, the strength of Sphintus behind him, let alone the fact that he has a friend here for once. Titus swallows hard, blinking fast, reaching back over his shoulder to grab Sphintus’s hand and squeeze hard, wordlessly grateful.

 

Coming down from his own high, it's clear as day that something still isn't quite _right_.

 

Sphintus gives Titus's hand a squeeze, bending down to kiss the back of it before he carefully eases himself out. "Let me clean you up," he murmurs, "and you can tell me why you're crazier than usual."  

 

Titus fights the urge to tell Sphintus to leave him alone, leave him filthy and used on the floor of his quarters. That won’t do, after all. The tensions starts creeping back, no matter how he tries, he tries to keep it at bay. “Yeah. Okay.” 

 

He laughs, but there’s no mirth in it. “Then maybe you can lend me the use of your professional services, as well as your personal ones.”

 

Not that anyone can help. If they could have…

 

He frowns. “Did my Lady send for you?” Gods, how embarrassing.

 

Sphintus arches a brow at that. "… Should she have?" he bluntly asks as he reaches for a cloth to wipe Titus clean, and himself, for good measure before fixing his own clothing back into place. He gently catches Titus's chin afterwards, tilting his head back to get a good look at his rather bruised neck, and he can't help but grin. "You _seem_ pretty well, other than being as tense as I've ever seen you."

 

Titus shivers at just that touch, lurching forward to sag against Sphintus’s chest, cheek pressed against the beat of his heart. He hadn’t even realized how much he’d _wanted_ , how much he’d _missed_ Sphintus. He hadn’t allowed himself to, knowing that if he started, he wouldn’t stop. 

 

Ah, god, he just wants to _stay_ like this. He buries his face, mumbling, “You’ll just laugh at me.”

 

"… I kind of doubt that." Sphintus slings an arm around him, dragging him forward and into his lap. "Tell me," he presses again, all while dragging his thumb over the bruises along Titus's neck, healing them as he goes along. 

 

Titus nuzzles into the other man’s neck, inhaling deeply, eyes lidding as he shivers under Sphintus’s touch. “I…”

 

It’s too embarrassing. He feels his face heat up, stomach churning at the bare _thought_ of it. “I can’t…” 

 

He swallows hard. Of course Sphintus is going to laugh at him. Mu had. He knows the guards have, though they’ve had the dubious courtesy not to do it to his face. 

 

“I can’t get my wife pregnant.”

 

Sphintus pauses. He tries not to pause for _too_ long, but, ah, under the circumstances, it's a little _difficult._ Deep breaths. He prides himself on not screeching. "Wait. Back up a few steps." He takes hold of Titus's shoulders to hold him away, just slightly, to better _look_ at him. "You have a _wife?_ " Heliohapt is always a bit behind, but this is too much.

 

Titus wants to squirm under the gaze, but Sphintus’s stare makes him draw himself up, no matter how his ears tinge with pink. “There are expectations. I’m the only descendent of two noble lines. I…yes, I have a wife. For nearly a year now. Honestly, do they not have _news_ in Heliohapt?”

 

"We've practically been under siege by the Kou Empire for the past year and a half, _news_ is hard to come by unless it's from Sindria," Sphintus flatly answers. "And _Laem_ doesn't like Sindria very much, so of course we wouldn't hear about _you_. But that aside--okay, you have a wife." _Fuck, I'm sleeping with a married man. I told my father I wouldn't be like my sisters, damn it all._ "And you've slept with her, and she can't get pregnant. Sounds pretty straight forward, I can probably do something to help."

 

Ah. The Kou Empire. Good thing _that_ isn’t too awkward or anything. Titus clears his throat, ducking his head. “Um. I. About that.” 

 

He clears his throat, but there’s no way to be indignant about this, and he’s a master of indignation.

 

Pause.

 

 _Pause_.

 

"… You can't get it up, can you." 

 

Titus had thought nothing could be worse than talking to Mu about this. He’s still not sure this is worse, but it’s hardly _better_. “I...no. Well, sometimes, but it won’t...stay.” Maybe, just maybe, there is a medical solution.

 

"… Too busy thinking about me?" Okay, he can't help but tease. He really can't. "If you're expecting that when you go to bed your wife, you're _gonna_ be disappointed." 

 

Titus starts to pull away in a huff, but that’s hardly better either. All that accomplishes is that he’s farther away from touching Sphintus, and he rather doubts he’ll have this opportunity for long. He still tries for a look of offended dignity as he squirms onto Sphintus’s lap, probably without success. “I know. I just--I see it, or I _smell_ it, or I just--feel it, you know? And it just...falls.” Not _quite_ as bad as talking to Mu, as long as Sphintus doesn’t laugh.

 

 _No, I don't know, but I'm going to be nice and not say that._ "Is she ugly or something? Because I can't fix _that_." Sphintus sighs, rubbing a hand down Titus's back. "Sorry. I can try a few things? Maybe if I just get you _started_ , even…"

 

Titus sighs, relaxing gratefully back into the touch. At least Sphintus isn’t laughing. At least he’s trying to _help_ , and not being horrible and judgmental. “Thank you. No, she’s beautiful. And that’s...that’s the _worst_! Because she’s lovely, and sweet, and very, very, very important to my Lady and everything else, and I can’t…I hate failing them!”

 

"… No offense, Titus," Sphintus slowly, wryly says, "but making you marry a girl and being expected to put out kids… they're kind of setting you up for failure. I _know_ you don't like girls like that. And that's _fine_ , but geez…"

 

“Well, it’s not fine here! This isn’t Heliohapt,” Titus reminds him, “and they actually _care_ in Laem if you can’t even perform your familial duties for long enough to produce the future heir of the Empire!”

 

Ah. Wait. He’s fairly sure he hadn’t mentioned anything about that to Sphintus before.

 

"You're not telling me like a dozen things and it's getting really tiring." _As per usual_. "Also, if I didn't have two older brothers and sisters, _I'd_ be expected to get married, too, and _soon_ , and do the same thing. I might still have to, but for now, my father just wants me to avoid Kou. Heliohapt isn't made of _heathens_ , you know."

 

“That’s _different_ ,” Titus argues wearily. “You _like_ girls, you’ve told me a hundred times how good you are with them and how much they like you. And I…” Something cold and hard churns in the pit of his stomach. Even now, he hates admitting it. “She doesn’t like me to talk about it. She doesn’t want me to...to get the idea that I mean more to her than a loyal servant.”

 

Sphintus heaves a long sigh. "I show up and you're as tense as a board, high strung as I've ever seen you, and we're alone in a room and you still can't be anything but _vague_." 

 

Well. Here goes nothing. Titus takes a deep breath. “The thing is, the reason it’s so important is--”

 

Something slams against his shields, a bare courtesy before they’re dismissed. Titus attempts to scramble to his feet, making it into a tangled mess on the floor before Kougyoku Alexius throws open the door. “I don’t know _why_ you insist on putting up those shields when your mother specifically forbade--oh.”

 

Her eyes widen, flickering between uncertainty, outrage, and scornful amusement as she surveys the two men. “We have a guest, I see. And you were so excited to show him proper courtesy that you made him sit on the floor in front of the door.” She casts Sphintus another look, appraising him thoroughly with a wistful hunger. “I’ll prepare the tea. And you’re lucky I got here before _she_ did, she’s on her way.”

 

Sphintus gawks. 

 

There's really no way _not to_ , not when it's--she's--

 

"A… A _Kou_ princess?" Sphintus hisses into Titus's ear before pulling away. Kukulcan slithers out from the corner he had settled into, quickly winding his way up to Sphintus's neck. There's no mistaking the red hair of the Ren family, or the accent, or-- _anything_ about her, and Sphintus swallows as he picks himself up, trying very hard not to think that he's walked into a bear trap.

 

Why did Titus neglect to mention _that part?_

 

Titus straightens his clothing, flushing a deep red as he hastily recombs his hair, looking anxiously to the door. He can’t _feel_ her coming yet, but that means little; she could easily have decided to cloak her presence today. 

 

Belatedly, he realizes what Sphintus had said, and it clicks that he’s been slightly less than diplomatic. “Oh, oh, sorry, I didn’t think…” That’s right, Heliohapt is under the governance of Sindria, which means…

 

Ah. His lover and his wife are technically at war. Excellent. 

 

He barely has time to finish adjusting his collar before the door opens, swinging on its hinges to reveal Lady Scheherezade, Magi of Laem. “You must be Prince Sphintus,” she says without preamble, walking past Titus to stand in front of Sphintus. “I am Scheherezade.”

 

Sphintus wants to go home.

 

That's saying something, when his country is poor and hungry and his family is terrified every single day and he never gets to sleep for how many illnesses he has to cure. "I…" He swallows. _Get it together, Sphintus. Don't look at the Kou princess in the room like she's going to eat you._ "It's an honor to meet you, Lady Scheherazade," he manages, bowing his head. "Thank you, for allowing me into your beautiful country." 

 

Lady Scheherezade gives Sphintus an appraising look, soft eyes shining with the power flowing through her. Slowly, she extends a hand to be kissed, and Titus’s eyes widen in surprise, impressed. “I pray that Laem will be the source of much comfort to you, Sphintus of Heliohapt. If we are lucky, it will be the source of much pleasure as well.”

 

Kougyoku appears in the doorway, bobbing a nervous curtsy to the Magi. “The tea is served, Milady.”

 

“Good. Highness, if you would join us? Mu, on my left,” she adds, well before the Fanalis even enters the room.

 

Okay. He takes it back. Maybe this won't be _so_ bad, Sphintus thinks as he kisses her hand, keeps trying _not_ to be nervous about Kougyoku (to be fair, the girl seems as nervous as he is) and ah, at least Kukulcan is behaving himself… 

 

But then there's _Mu_ , apparently, who is nearly enough to take up the entire doorway and looking at him like he wants to eat him. 

 

What was that thing about _the source of much pleasure?_ Oh god. Was she hitting on him? She and Mu are _involved_ , aren't they, Sphintus has been privy to enough royal scandals involving sex to see _that_ look and--

 

Shit. He didn't ask for this. _God_ , Titus looks like her, though, except definitely not with the height and the straight, feathery hair is… definitely… 

 

Ah.

 

Sphintus gets it now.

 

He still wants to go home.

 

It’s thanks to years and years of training that Titus makes it through tea, sitting up straight and drinking properly as they eat their way through biscuits. What he wants to do is stare miserably at the table the whole time, but schooling keeps him upright, a carefully neutral expression on his face. 

 

Thankfully, his Lady seems inclined to make this visit brief. She’s asserted what she wants to by being here, and there’s always, _always_ something more important. One cup of tea and she stands, inclining her head to Sphintus. “You are welcome to your pleasure in the Imperial Palace, Highness. Also, if your healing arts are sufficient to assisting Laem in the cultivation of our future, you will not find our Empire lacking in gratitude.”

 

Kougyoku elbows Titus in the stomach. Titus’s stomach knots so badly he feels like vomiting.

 

"I… of course, my Lady. I will do all that I can." _That's_ incentive if he's ever heard it. _Dammit, Titus, this will happen, one way or another._

 

Mu gives him a long, lingering stare as he rises to follow at Scheherazade's hip when she takes her leave. Sphintus swallows down a long, hard gulp of tea, sagging back when the door finally shuts behind them. "Your _father_ ," he manages with a sideways glance to Titus, "is terrifying. He looks like he wants to _eat me._ "

 

“He won’t,” Titus says dully, drawing his knees up to his stomach. “Not unless you do something to Lady Scheherezade. Or try to. Or consider it.”

 

He downs the rest of his tea, no matter that his stomach still feels like a tiny hand is squeezing and twisting it. Her visits always have that effect.

 

"She acts like she wants to do something to me! _Wow_ , you look a lot like her, it's kind of creepy." Sphintus exhales slowly, and spares another, wary glance to Kougyoku. "Um… sorry, awkward circumstances and all, but…"

 

Kougyoku takes advantage of Titus’s sudden melancholy, leaning over and offering her hand. “I do apologize for my earlier rudeness. I wasn’t aware you were a _Prince_ , after all, my husband was rude enough not to introduce us.”

 

“You barged through my shields.”

 

“I don’t know why you insist on putting up shields when Lady S gave me the…” Kougyoku takes a deep breath, tucking the hair behind her ears, now worn in a Laem-style braid. “My apologies, Your Highness. My name is Ren Kougyoku Alexius.”

 

Well, they sort of bicker like a married couple if he squints. Sphintus exhales, extending his own hand to grasp hers. _Maybe_ , if he's nice to her, even if she's from the Ren family, it'll do something good for _that_ situation as well. And if he can help them have a _child_ , and Scheherazade helps Heliohapt, he won't be so _useless,_ that son his father constantly has to hide away in political struggles because all he's good for is healing… 

 

Now that he thinks about it, her name is a bit more familiar. "Prince Sphintus Carmen of Heliohapt. I heard, from my cousin, of your travels in Sindria. I'm glad to see my friend has taken such a beautiful--" His gaze flickers upward, to the pin in her hair, and the seal upon it. All dungeon capturers, _all of them._ Terrifying. "--and powerful wife." 

 

Kougyoku colors prettily, and it’s with a wistful sigh that she pulls her hand back, curling her fingers to protect the ghost of that touch. “You two are old friends, right? And a healer, ah, excellent! Did you hear about Titus’s little problem?”

 

Titus briefly considers hanging himself. “I told you not to bring that--”

 

“He’s a _healer_ ,” Kougyoku points out, in what she probably thinks is a calming tone. “He’s probably heard way worse than a man who’s never been able to sustain an erection!”

 

Titus considers hanging himself a little less briefly.

 

"I definitely have," Sphintus wryly replies, and he reaches over to gently tug on one of Titus's braids. "Relax about it already. I told you I'll figure something out, okay? And sooner rather than later… do you think Lady Scheherazade will actually… uh… follow through, about the gratitude thing?" 

 

Titus shoots Sphintus a grateful look. “Definitely,” he confirms. “She doesn’t make promises lightly. There’s…” 

 

Gods, he’s never going to get through a conversation about this without wanting to die. “There’s been rewards offered through Laem, to the healers. Discreetly, of course. She means what she says.”

 

"I think it's less a matter of healing and more a matter of… ah… just manipulating things correctly." Sphintus can't help but be _slightly_ amused. "Ah, whatever. Don't stress over it, let me do that. My apologies, Lady Kougyoku; I will have to ask you to be a bit… tolerant over the next few weeks."

 

Kougyoku gives him a wicked smile. “I have longed for the day that I need to be tolerant of something, Highness. I’ll wait in my chambers. Take all the time you need with my husband, I want him in fighting shape!”

 

As soon as the door swings shut behind her, Titus slumps forward onto the table. “ ‘Why don’t you talk about your family, Titus?’ Oh, no reason…”

 

Sphintus sputters, unable to keep his laughter back any longer. "I'm sorrryyy, but oh, god, your mother _and_ your wife want me to put it in them and I didn't even _try!_ Damn, Titus, can't you just flip her over and pretend it's me or something? Didn't you want to do that once?" 

 

“No, I can’t _just_. I tried. A hundred times, I tried.” Titus flops sideways, head clunking down on Sphintus’s shoulder. “I’ve just told her I can’t do it, _ever_. I thought I’d rather everyone think I was incapable than bent, but then she told someone, and Laem is _such_ a rumor mill, and now it’s just...awful,” he ends quietly.

 

"Okay, okay, sorry," Sphintus breathes, looping an arm around him and pulling him close, a kiss pressed to the top of his head. "Do you think if I got you really, _really_ ready, you'd be able to stand it for a few minutes and at least try it that way? If it's the soft, wet part that's throwing you--" _Even if that's the fun part, damn._ "--I'll let you have my mouth a few times, maybe that'll get you over it."

 

Titus’s cock twitches at the very idea. _Traitor. You can never do that when I need you to._ “It’s worth a try,” he says, trying not to get his hopes up too high. “God, I never thought I’d have this kind of trouble with it. I even _like_ her, she’s a great person, I just...I _can’t_ ,” he ends helplessly. “If this doesn’t work you’re going to have to convince her that it’s medically necessary for you to be there while we consummate.”

 

"If you don't like women, you don't like women," Sphintus says with a shrug, unfazed by the idea. "It's more common than you think. And anyway, I don't think it would take much _convincing_ , to be honest, just so long as you don't mind my hands on _her_ , too."

 

“Mind? No. But my...Lady Scheherezade has made it very clear that she’ll know who the father is. So if you don’t want Mu to eat you, as you put it, you’d better leave the actual, ah, _doing_ of it to me.”

 

Titus turns his head, nipping gently at the long tanned column of Sphintus’s neck, just behind his ear. “Thank you. I can at least promise that you’ll be rewarded very handsomely, by Lady Scheherezade and myself.”

 

"Trust me, I'll make sure _your_ cock is the one going in her," Sphintus teases, turning to grab a handful of Titus's hair and pull him up for a proper kiss. " _Nothing_ can be simple when it comes to you, can it? You know I'll help regardless, because it's _you_ , but I'm not going to lie, that reward is one hell of an incentive."

 

Some of the edge of that burning _need_ gone, Titus relaxes into the kiss, drawing Sphintus’s lip into his mouth, climbing slowly up into the other man’s lap. “Mercenary,” he breathes, reaching a hand down to tweak one of Sphintus’s nipples with a wicked grin. “Playing with a prince’s cock for money, hmm? Perhaps I should better call you a whore.”

 

 _Wouldn't be much of a change_. Sphintus snorts at that, less than amused but whatever, Titus is in his lap, and he doesn't _know_ anything, anyway. Kukulcan is a little more vocal about it, hissing low from where he winds around Sphintus's shoulders. "You'd probably be more surprised about what I _wouldn't_ do," he dryly retorts, splaying his hands around Titus's hips. "But I just told you, it's more about you than the money. I missed you." 

 

The seriousness in Sphintus’s expression is a surprise, and Titus finds he doesn’t really _like_ it there. _Well. I’ll have to do something about that._

 

He runs his fingers through Sphintus’s hair, squirming around on his lap to lean down and brush a kiss across the other man’s lips. “I missed you too. And...don’t worry, all right? You’re the only healer who knows the real problem. If you can get this all sorted out, you’ll never have to worry about money again.”

 

"I'll get it sorted out," Sphintus tells him, giving his waist a little squeeze, and he grins, tugging him closer for another kiss. "Now if I can only get you to stop stressing out on top of that. I had you really relaxed when we were in school together--well, at least for a little while."

 

Titus slumps forward onto his chest, closing his eyes. “Those were good times, huh? It’s your fault I’m like this, you know. You shouldn’t have gone back to Heliohapt if you wanted me to stay relaxed. I do a lot better with that when you’re around, and I _told_ you you could always come to Laem.”

 

"Sorry, sorry," is the sigh to follow, and Sphintus smoothes a hand up Titus's back. "I _had_ to go home, though. My family needed me."

 

“Mmphm.” Titus loops his arms around Sphintus’s neck, nuzzling closer. “I imagine that’s very hard, being in a country that’s at war. I’m surprised you’re not more stressed. It sounds awful.”

 

"I'm stressed," Sphintus dryly retorts. "I just have you in my lap, and that makes it a lot easier."

 

Titus huffs out a laugh into Sphintus’s neck. “Well, then consider me a present to a visiting foreign prince.”

 

"One hell of a present." Sphintus steals a pinch to the curve of Titus's ass. "And still squishy. _Perfect_ present." _Now send some of that food to my country, and then we'll talk._

 

Titus squeaks, wriggling away from the pinch even as a shiver runs up his spine. How unfair, that even a tiny touch from Sphintus affects him so much. He sobers for a minute, fingers curling in his hair, and asks quietly, “There’s something you can do, right? Medically? If I don’t do this soon, her brother is going to annul the marriage and probably declare war on us too, Lady Scheherezade or no.”

 

Sphintus sighs, tilting his head back in thought. "… Maybe. Honestly, our best bet might be me going in there with you, keeping you worked up, and making sure you come inside of her when all is said and done. Awkward, but, well…"

 

Titus makes a face. Even the idea of it is enough to get rid of those pleasant little shivers. “That sounds a whole lot less medical than I was expecting. I’d have thought that all the rich old men with withered little pricks would come to you for a quick and easy spell to satisfy their whores.”

 

"Sure, that happens a lot. And there's definitely a way to make you stay hard," Sphintus bluntly retorts. "The problem is, it messes with a lot of other things, like whether or not your seed actually _works_ \--and you still need to be able to get her _pregnant_. Medical magic isn't a cure-all, you know." 

 

Titus sighs. “That’s what the other medical mages said,” he admits. “I just figured you were better than they were.” He scratches the back of his neck, teeth worrying at his lip. “You have experience with a lot of girls, right? How do I tell her I need you in there with me?”

 

"I can tell her for you, if you want--there's no really easy way to do it, but I might be able to make it sound… appealing… to her…" Sphintus wryly says. "Pretty sure she wants me, anyway."

 

“That’s probably for the best.” Ugh, Titus _hates_ the idea of sharing Sphintus with Kougyoku, but if it’ll save his country… “Of course she wants you, she’d be a fool not to. But you can’t put it in her, all right? Lady Scheherezade would _kill_ me. And she’d know.”

 

"Relax, I know what I'm doing." Sphintus gives him another little pinch. "Also, why do you call her that? Isn't she your mother? Even if she looks young enough to be your sister…"

 

Titus hesitates, a bit uncomfortable, but the truth is the truth, after all. “She doesn’t like me to say it. She thinks it would confuse our relationship, bring an unwanted component of affection into it and make me forget I’m her servant.”

 

"… She's your _mother_."

 

Titus shrugs. “And? She doesn’t particularly _want_ to be my mother. The Empress begged her to have a child. Most of them died, for some reason. She probably didn’t want to get too attached to me.”

 

"Still weird," Sphintus mutters, shaking his head. "I dunno. I guess if you don't grow up with a  big family and everything, you wouldn't miss it. My parents would be all over you, and my siblings, too. And my cousins and… everyone." 

 

Titus leans down, burrowing into Sphintus’s chest. “You can take me there sometime. When Heliohapt is all shiny again, okay?”

 

"Yeah," Sphintus sighs out, half-burying his face into Titus's hair. "You'd hate it right now. And also, you'd get eaten alive. We'll save it for later."

 

Titus blinks at that. “Do you think I can’t take care of myself? I’m the Empress’s First Magician, you know. They don’t give that title out for collecting stamps. I’ve gotten a lot better since we last saw each other.”

 

"That's…" Ah, it's not worth getting into in depth. "I'm well aware that you can take care of yourself," he wryly replies instead. "I'd just know how you are when it comes to _pathetic_ things. Especially kids. Walk the streets of Heliohapt, and you've got beggars in spades--little ones." 

 

Titus’s face falls. “Beggars? Children?” Such a thing isn’t allowed to happen in Laem. He swallows hard at the very thought of it, hands clenching on Sphintus’s shoulders. “We’ll have to make _sure_ you take a great reward back to Heliohapt. And you’ll help them, won’t you?”

 

"That's the idea! Them, and everyone else, too." Sphintus is glad that he has the chance to hide his face in Titus's hair before his own smile wavers. "It's nice being somewhere that everyone's healthy… and at least mostly happy. I'm sorry I had to leave you for so long."

 

“Mmm, we’re all getting fat here,” Titus agrees. “I wish I could have married you. Then we could have brought Heliohapt into the Empire.”

 

"… Not so sure Sindria would have gone for that." Though at this point, getting fat sounds pretty good, regardless of what Sindria thinks. "You would be a cute wife, though."

 

“I _meant_ that _you_ ….oh, never mind,” Titus mutters, a little grumpily. “You’re probably right.”

 

"I know I'm right. Don't fight it." _That's why you have problems when_ you _have a wife._

 

Titus huffs, and reaches down to pinch Sphintus’s chest. “You should let me put it in you once. So I get used to the idea, you know.”

 

Sphintus's eyes roll. "I told you I'd let you have my mouth if you wanted it. You'd get bored otherwise, though, but you're welcome to try."

 

“How do _you_ know I’ll get bored?” It _does_ sound a bit boring, though, just shoving his cock into the same place over and over. Really, a bit like using his hand.

 

"Because I know you pretty well by now, as well as what you like. Also, wives don't go around shoving their cocks into things."

 

“You’re _awful_.” Titus starts to get up, but winds up squirming down onto Sphintus’s lap again in a new position. His voice gets a little softer as he drops his head onto Sphintus’s shoulder. “It would be much nicer to come home to _you_ every day.”

 

"You can do that every day while I'm around here." Sphintus presses a kiss to the top of Titus's head, heaving a sigh. "You have a good wife. It might not be what you want, but it could be a lot worse. Let's just get this mess over with and you can relax again."

 

Titus sighs too, climbing slowly off his lap. “All right. Let’s do this. I’ll go bathe and you can tell Kougyoku that in your medical opinion I need a doctor stimulating me while I service her.”

 

"… Because that phrasing right there is really going to get her going," is the deadpan to follow.

 

Titus frowns. “I thought the problem was getting me going. She always seems perfectly ready. Besides, that’s why _you’re_ doing it.”

 

"I'm joking, relax. I'll take care of it," Sphintus waves off, climbing to his feet with a sigh. "You go… get prettier or something while I talk to her."

 

Titus moves, hesitating by the doorway. “This _will_ work, right? There’s...quite a lot depending on it. Tell me it’ll work.”

 

"It'll work," Sphintus reassures him, "one way or another." _And if this doesn't--well, I'll come up with something else. Somehow._

 

_~~_

 

The throne looks smaller than Sinbad remembers it. 

 

Of course, he’d been little more than a child the first time he’d seen it, inflated with his own self-importance, somehow believing that even without having _seen_ the world he was the best person to rule it. He still thinks that often enough, but at least now he’s made the effort. 

 

He’d been so easily impressed back then, seeing a golden king on his golden throne, respected and adored. It had seemed so permanent, as if he’d always have the man to look up to.

 

And now it’s his.

 

Oh, he’ll give it back, if Alibaba demands it. He’d promised, after all. Alibaba might not recognize the gift of relief for what it is yet, but this is hardly the first time Sinbad has kindly removed the weight of the throne from a man’s shoulders. Rarely had he heard complaints after the fact, and even if Alibaba isn’t nearly as smart as some of those men, he doubts he’ll hear them now.

 

The pain in his knee is still bad enough that it feels obscenely good to sit down on the golden throne, slightly scorched and damaged from the turmoils of the past. 

 

“Funny,” he remarks casually, leaning back until he’s nearly as tall as Abbas had been. “I always thought things should look different from different thrones. Maybe there is no true sense of perspective with location.”

 

"That sounds like a crushed dream," Ja'far dryly retorts, arms folded up within his robes as he watches with his head tilting slightly. "You really are getting old." 

 

He _wants_ to tell Sinbad to stop playing around in a throne room and properly wake Judal for the first time in days so that he can be _healed_ entirely. No matter how cute the two magi are, rolling around in bed together like a pair of cats, _Sinbad_ isn't cute with creaking, aching joints and a knee that Ja'far could take out with a prod of one finger. Really, if he waits much longer, he'll feel that pain the rest of his _life_. 

 

Ah, but he's nagged enough at this point, and it has gotten him nowhere, so saving his breath is an easier choice when Sinbad is being this stubborn.

 

Sinbad relaxes back onto the throne, his eyes sliding shut as his head tips back. “You’re as cruel as ever, Ja’far. I think I’ve held up quite well for my age.” He lets his eyes slit, raking over Ja’far’s form, and even after the months of less than plenty, it’s still an enchanting sight. “Not all of us can look like we’re just past twenty forever like you. I’m still spry.”

 

"It's less that you _look_ old and more that your body is telling you differently. Don't think I didn't hear you groaning about the chill this morning." Well, he _said_ he wasn't going to nag anymore. That never quite holds up. "A Magi's chosen king has an extended lifespan, or so legends have said; I will believe it when you stop getting grey hairs."

 

The sheer indignation that courses through Sinbad is enough to banish any concerns about his age, _surely_. “I’ll prove it however you like,” Sinbad challenges. “I’m as healthy as I ever was, and no older than I was ten years ago! I’ll gladly prove it with my body.”

 

Ja'far's eyebrows slowly, skeptically lift. "Try being the one kneeling all day as a servant and see how you last, _my king_. That's the most thorough test."

 

Without a pause, Sinbad stands, tugging Ja’far down and into the throne in his place. His knee _screams_ at him, but he ignores it; he’s bested pain before, a thousand times, and doubtless will again. With that in mind, he kneels, though probably a good deal closer than a good servant would, looking up at Ja’far through his eyelashes. “I’ve only ever wanted to kneel to men on thrones,” he says with a little grin, "so don’t mind if I put you there to prove my point.”

 

Oh, good grief.

 

Ja'far's never felt comfortable on a throne--standing beside it is fine, kneeling at one just as well, but actually sitting in one… ah, anathema in its truest form. Even more so, really, when Sinbad is doing it just to prove a point and be obnoxious, and Ja'far scowls, lifting a foot to deliberately step down on Sinbad's shoulder and try to push him a further distance away. "I am not sitting here all day to help you _prove a point_."

 

Sinbad takes advantage of the position, turning his head and raising up on his knees (ow ow ow) to nuzzle up the inside of Ja’far’s leg, brushing his lips across one long scar before biting a soft thigh gently. _Definitely need to fatten you up, as soon as we get the food to do so._ “That’s fine. I can think of much better things than just _sitting_.”

 

Ja'far has to wonder if this was Sinbad's plan from the very beginning.

 

If it was, _well played_. If not… well, it never takes very much for Sinbad to deviate to something sexual, and Ja'far squirms, sliding further back into the throne in a last attempt to get away. "Is this _really_ any way to pay respect to Balbadd's late king?" he attempts to scold, jabbing his heel into Sinbad's shoulder again.

 

Sinbad snorts, sliding his hands up to bunch in the fabric of Ja’far’s robes, hiking them up before swiping his tongue over the head of his cock. “He’d have been thrilled. He liked seeing me on my knees, once.”

 

" _Sin_ \--" It's a squeak of protest that comes out breathy more so than annoyed, and Ja'far twitches, a brief, frantic glance spared in the direction of the throne room's doors--

 

At least he knows _Alibaba_ won't be waltzing through any time soon.

 

He resigns himself with those thoughts, a little shudder sweeping up his spine as he reaches a hand down, fisting it into Sinbad's hair. "You're the worst," he breathes, and his foot slides down, dragging along Sinbad's chest before resting against the inside of one thigh, recalling rather vividly another request the man had given him not a day before. "Wasn't this supposed to be a test of your endurance? I should leave you tied up here on your knees, and see how long you last then."

 

Suddenly, Sinbad feels a lot less in-control than he’d been a moment earlier. 

 

His hips twitch forward involuntarily, and the groan that comes out of his mouth is entirely unfeigned. The squeaks and squirming is bad enough, but to have Ja’far being so purposely cruel to him, and the wandering pressure of his soft, elegant feet…

 

Definitely not as much control as he’d had a moment earlier.

 

His hands squeeze tight on Ja’far’s thighs for balance, trying not to think _too_ hard of Ja’far tying him up on his knees. It’s being here in Balbadd, he decides, and in this room to boot. It always makes him crave a little scolding.

 

Once in awhile, Ja'far _does_ like to humor Sinbad.

 

It's usually when the man is drunk, begging for him to slap him around or step on him or--well, any number of things. He's usually drunk enough that Sin passes out before Ja'far can even consider it, but right now… if it takes the edge off a bit, then it can't _hurt_. 

 

"… Do you want me to do that?" Looping a wire around Sinbad's neck is easy. Giving it a little bit of slack, making clear it would be just as easy to string his arms up is just enough to entice. "I'm not surprised you're that much of a pervert."

 

Sinbad lurches forward into the touch, eyes heavy-lidded, knees spreading slightly apart on the cold stone of the floor, and just now he really doesn’t notice his knee in the slightest. He sucks hard on the head of Ja’far’s cock, swirling his tongue around before pulling off, a little out of breath as he admits, “I’m not...really drunk enough for this…”

 

Ah, but he wants it anyway.

 

 _I'm aware_ , is probably what Ja'far should say, and ah, he should be more embarrassed about the twitch of his hips, the rush of his breath, and the slide of his foot between Sinbad's legs to press _down_ against the hard, aching line of Sinbad's cock. 

 

Instead--"And yet you are still no better than a harlot." Easy, to push Sinbad back, to wind wires around both of his arms once they're shoved behind his back, and tighten it all with a swift yank. He slides to the edge of the throne, his hands twisting up in Sinbad's hair, and god, he definitely shouldn't be so eager about pulling Sin forward between his legs again.

 

It is fun, certainly, to push Ja’far. Sinbad loves keeping the other man on the border of _wanting_ and wanting to _refuse_. Ja’far tends away from sex naturally, and though Sinbad loves pushing until Ja’far admits he loves it, there’s something alluring, uncommon, exciting about Ja’far being the one who _wants_ something from him.

 

Even if Ja’far is just humoring him, Sinbad can’t help but moan around his cock, leaning forward eagerly to take as much as he can down his throat. Ah, god, he _wants_ to touch himself, but it’s just as good (much better) to hump helplessly up against the sole of Ja’far’s foot, his wrists yanked tight behind him, all his movement reduced to the service he can give.

 

There are a dozen things too-different and wrong about this, but that's fine, in the end.

 

Sinbad's mouth is hot and slick around him, and it's sort of fun to grab his hair and pull him down harder when his hips twitch up, all for the way Sin swallows harder around him, and the way he moans like he loves it. Given how hard Sinbad is underneath his foot, there's not much guesswork there, and Ja'far toes off his shoe to better press and grind his foot against him, exhaling a hot breath through his nose when he feels Sinbad's hips writhe forward and he can't _help_ but step down harder.

 

"You really…" Ahh, god, Sin's tongue isn't _fair_. "… aren't much better than a whore… when you're like this, _Your Majesty._ "

 

If it were anyone other than Ja’far, Sinbad wouldn’t even be upset. He’d just laugh, knowing his own worth, knowing that there’s no man alive who deserves to call him _whore_ , far too sturdy to be dented by such an epithet.

 

That’s why he comes to Ja’far, those times when he’s drunk beyond understanding, wanting, _craving_ , because Ja’far knows him like no one else, has seen him at his least powerful, and all those thoughts fly out the window when Ja’far’s foot curls around his cock, pressing down hard. 

 

Sinbad can hardly take anymore. He ruts up, needy, mindless against the sole of Ja’far’s foot, mouth making obscene sucking, slurping noises as he tries to acquit himself well, tries to be a good whore if he’s going to be one, and his fingers dig in too hard when he comes, little better than an animal, at the touch of Ja’far’s foot (and his scornful words) alone.

 

Feeling slick, wet heat blossom against his foot brings Ja'far to snort out a ragged breath, and his fingers splay against the back of Sinbad's head, shoving it down with a hitching little groan of his own. " _That_ didn't take long," he lowly taunts, though is he any one to talk, when Sinbad's mouth is so good that he _knows_ he won't last? It's with a hissing breath that he shoves down Sinbad's throat, only pulling back enough to feel Sinbad's tongue slide against the head of his cock when he comes, panting hard as he spills, fingers twisting tight within Sin's hair and holding him in place.

 

It’s been a _long_ time since Sinbad has done this, and he struggles a bit to swallow, some of it running down his chin as he misses it. He starts to move to wipe his face, but his hands are tied, and his face burns with the knowledge of how he must look, drooling his subordinate’s seed, bound on his knees, cock messy against the front of his robes and a man’s foot of all things. He ducks his head, trying to catch his breath, and _damn_ but Ja’far doesn’t make mistakes when it comes to his wires.

 

"I could leave you here." He won't. It's sort of fun to watch Sinbad's reaction to that idea, though. "Maybe tie you to the throne you just won?" Ja'far leans down, gently plucking at one loop of wire, and the whole mess of it loosens. "Or maybe you'd like that _too_ much."

 

Now sated, the rare feeling recedes, leaving Sinbad flexing his wrists, grinning for a moment before wiping his face. These moments are few and far between, when he feels the need to let himself be brought low, and now over, it’s hard to remember why he’d _needed_ it so much. “You look so pretty on the throne, though,” he protests, and climbs to his feet.

 

At least, he gets halfway to his feet before his knee makes an odd crunching sound, and Sinbad goes stark white, catching himself on the throne just before he falls.

 

"Will you _please_ let me drag Judal out?" Ja'far frets, on his feet in an instant and catching hold of Sinbad to turn him around and ease him into the throne instead. "If you let injuries like that go for too long, they could be permanent, you know!"

 

Sinbad nods, gritting his teeth as he tries to draw in a breath through the pain. It’s nowhere as easy as he’s sure it should be, and he briefly curses his own stupidity before grinding out, “Y-yeah. Get him.”

 

After all, what’s the point of having his own Magi if he isn’t going to _use_ him?

 

 _Finally_. Ja'far huffs out a breath, smoothing his robes as he pulls away. "I will be right back. _Don't_ try and get up." 

 

~~

 

He shouldn't have gone to see them in the first place.

 

It was a stupid idea, but when one wakes in the middle of the night, shivering and cold and feeling _sick_ from a dozen horrible dreams, what choice does he have? The sight of them doesn't make Judal feel any better, especially with how Kouha simply curls himself into Koumei's side, sleeping so damnably _peacefully_ , like nothing bothers him at all and the worst of his worries is the cold dungeon floor. 

 

"Why do you hate me so much?"

 

He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't have _asked_. 

 

Kouha cracks an eye open--not sleeping, he's too much a soldier now to sleep through someone walking by, too much a _general_ , less a pampered prince, and that makes Judal shake even more. "You left us. Why shouldn't I?"

 

"You didn't _want me!_ " _Why does this bother me so much? Why? I have Sinbad, I have Sindria, why can't I let this go_ \--

 

"I wasn't _there_ when you showed up," Kouha reminds him, stretching like a cat. "En made his decision. If you wanted to be with us so bad and make him your king, then you should've come back when you got your magic back."

 

It's true, but why would he have gone back to the ones that cast him aside so easily? 

 

"Honestly," is the sigh that leaves Kouha's lips, "I don't really hate you. It's more that En finds you terribly annoying now, and so it's best that you suffer a little for causing him such an _inconvenience._ " 

 

An _inconvenience_. Oh, yes, he knows that word, knows how well it applies to him in all things, when everyone in Sindria is hungry and _he_ gets priority because he's their Magi, their savior, the only thing keeping them afloat, the reason why Ja'far skips meals and Sinbad looks _tired_ \--

 

Judal doesn't really think, when he pulls out his wand.

 

It's been a long time since he's done that. Truthfully, it's been a long time since he's killed, and it's easy, very easy, to imagine that Kouha is _Kouen_ , or any member of Al-Sarmen, _anyone_ that's ever hurt him, when he opens the cell's door and shoves his foot into Kouha's chest, holds him down and shakily whispers the words to a spell before literally shoving it down his throat. It's a quiet thing, _nothing_ like what Kouha did to him, and Judal watches as the blend of aberrant magic churns its way through his body, ripping him to shreds from the inside out.

 

Koumei isn't worth his energy, not when he can just slit his throat in his sleep and be done with it.

 

He walks out, shuts the cell door behind him, and sits down, wand clattering to the ground as he simply buries his face into his arms.

 

Aladdin moves quietly. He knows how jumpy, how frightened, how sick and sad Judal is, knows it better than everyone. It’s only because he’s sure of himself that he even _goes_ to Judal--because that’s his job, isn’t it? Awful things had happened to all of them, and he was the one who’d pushed it down the best, so he’s the one who has to help. It’s only fair. 

 

It probably wasn’t very Magi-like to watch Judal kill the two brothers. Sinbad probably had a reason for wanting them alive. Killing is wrong, and Aladdin had learned a long time ago to try as hard as he could to find another solution.

 

He doesn’t care.

 

It helps a little, to see them dead, to know that all of the guards are dead. At least, it _would_ help if Judal looked _better_ instead of _worse_ , and Aladdin hesitates a few feet behind Judal, not wanting to be a bother.

 

Instead of speaking, he lets a little tendril of his power out, softly stirring the rukh. If Judal wants to see him, he’ll see him. Otherwise it’ll be easy enough to give him the privacy he wants.

 

Judal isn't crying, _can't_ cry, and that's the worst.

 

He _wants to_ , the moment he feels Aladdin near. He wants to cry and sob and be pathetic and be _comforted_ , but that won't do him any good. Always a brat, a selfish, useless _brat_ , no matter what he does. He's already made it worse now, by killing these two--Kouha, who he grew up with; Koumei, who always tried to keep them in some semblance of order before giving up--

 

Sinbad's going to be angry--so, _so_ angry, and that makes him scared, because it's justified, all of it.

 

"… I don't want to stay here anymore."

 

At least that’s something Aladdin can _do_.

 

The wave of relief that goes through him at that is like nothing else, and Aladdin whips off his turban no matter that they’re underground, padding up behind Judal to hook his chin on the older Magi’s shoulder, giving his cheek a kiss. “Come with me. Let’s fly away. Right now.”

 

If he stays in Balbadd one more night, the place he’s been tearing out his hair to try and help, to try and be a proper Magi and _govern_ even as his chosen king throws it all away…

 

Yeah. Better for everyone that they leave, for a bit.

 

"He's going to be angry." Ah, he sounds _really_ pathetic now, even as he stands, unable to stop himself from following Aladdin's suggestion. "Maybe… they'll be glad I'm gone. I never even healed him properly this time, I'm not…" Judal laughs tiredly. "I'm not so good at this Magi stuff after all, I think." _Small wonder no one ever wanted me._

 

All Aladdin can manage is a shaky, sad little smile. “If you’re not so good at it, I’m much worse. I don’t...my king doesn’t want to be a king, and I…” He swallows hard.

 

“I couldn’t do anything for you.”

 

"You're taking me somewhere, aren't you? That's a thing." Judal butts his head against Aladdin's shoulder. "I wanna quit. Let's quit." 

 

“Okay.” Aladdin probably agrees too easily, but it’s been on the tip of his tongue for a _while_. The carpet swirls under them, whipping up the stone steps and out a high window, sending the two figures racing towards the horizon. Aladdin lays down, wrapping an arm around Judal’s waist. “To anywhere in particular? Now that we’re free?”

 

"… Somewhere with a lot of food." Judal sighs, flopping down. Ah, he feels less guilty about this than he probably should, but… "That I won't feel bad about eating." 

 

Aladdin nudges his head against Judal’s, drawing him close to keep warm. “You know, Magi aren’t supposed to be _servants_ or anything. Yunan sure goes wherever he wants, and what’s-her-name pretty much runs that whole Empire from what I heard…”

 

"Scheherabitchsomething," Judal tiredly supplies, his eyes lidding as he drops his head against Aladdin's. "I wonder what that's like. You'd know better than me. I mean, I've never really minded, but…"

 

“Me?” Aladdin laughs gently, steering the carpet higher over the desert. If there’s anything nice-looking, he’ll find it. “I’m just Aladdin. I don’t run anything.”

 

"No, but you know what it's like to _go_ places." Judal rolls over onto his back with a sigh. "And do stuff, without always worrying about being 'too recognizable' or … too _anything_. The most I ever saw was when I was little, when Kouen didn't think I was _annoying_ yet, and would put me on his horse and take me places. I could barely even leave the palace in Sindria." 

 

Aladdin plants a kiss on Judal’s shoulder, more determined than ever to make this a _good_ trip. “Hey, remember, we’re gonna live forever! We can see the whole world five or ten times, so...let’s see the world together and have adventures, okay?”

 

_The world isn't very good right now, though._

 

Judal frowns, turning his head aside even as he manages a little nod. "All right, but…" His eyes briefly shut. "Let's go to Kou first." 

 

If he's going to leave his king behind, he's at least going to fix _something_ first.

 

“Um.” Aladdin hesitates. Which would be worse, letting Judal get them killed, or making him upset?

 

Why does it take him a while to answer that question?

 

“I guess if that’s what you _want_.”

 

"I can't just let Kouen keep _doing_ all of this. I--" Judal exhales a long breath. "I don't _want_ to kill him, but if I don't, I don't know what is going to happen."

 

“Alibaba asked me to kill Kouen once,” Aladdin remembers. “Or, well, he asked if I _could_ , from far away. From what I heard he’s... _really_ dangerous.”

 

"I know he is," Judal mutters. "I raised all of his dungeons. That's why I have to kill him, I know everything about his abilities."

 

“Can I help?” It’s not entirely unselfish. The days he’d spent in the dungeons, right next to Judal, still come back to him sometimes. The faces of the hungry people in Balbadd, starved by order of the Kou Empire, haunt him far more. “I have some scores to settle with him too.”

 

"I'm probably going to need you to," is the quiet admittance. "Especially… if Hakuei and Kougyoku are there still. They _are_ pretty close-knit, they've always been."

 

“Then we’ll be close-knit, too,” Aladdin suggests. He yawns, the act of flying starting to drain on him already, and nuzzles into Judal’s neck. “Can you steer for a little bit? It’ll go a lot better if we take turns.”

 

"You have no stamina," Judal grumbles, but he nevertheless nods, tugging the flow of power over to himself. "Sleep if you have to."

 

“Mmm, I flew from Balbadd to Sindria without stopping,” Aladdin points out, yawning again. “Just...rather not. This way we can switch off the whole time and go really fast.” _And then the killing will be_ over _, and we can have fun adventures._

 

"I already said it's fine… worthless." Aladdin is a good pillow, even if he's in charge of piloting their carpet, and at least he knows the shortcuts to Kou better than Aladdin does. Judal buries his face down into his neck. "Just rest for now, I've got it."


	19. Chapter 19

Ja'far doesn't like to panic.

 

Unfortunately, he likes even _less_ not knowing what is going on. He hates feeling like he's been tossed off a bridge with rocks tied to his ankles, and not being able to find Judal-- _or Aladdin_ , for that matter--is a more terrifying thing than the possibility of drowning, for sure, with the same result a great possibility. 

 

Stuck within an enemy's stronghold, with an injured king and _Alibaba_ , who for all intents and purposes, is _useless_ \--

 

Ja'far takes a deep breath. 

 

_We still have the Kou brothers._

 

And yet, some niggling, worrisome thought makes him go and _check_ , and god, if his instincts ever have failed him, now would be a good time. He wants to be wrong. He wants to not see the pool of blood that they both are, the bruises all over Kouha that speak of countless internal injuries, and Ja'far doesn't need to check their pulses to know how dead they are. 

 

With a curse--even if he isn't _sorry_ about it, even if he's sort of glad, in a way--he races back up the stairs, back to the throne room, and rapidly thinks of ways _he_ can better help Sinbad heal, minus any _real_ capability. They have a problem. _Several._

 

The man has run his feet ragged, his shoes in tatters, his feet bloody as he kneels before Balbadd’s throne to deliver the news. Sinbad rewards the man as well as Balbadd can afford, even if he _wants_ to take that information and stuff it down the man’s throat. Cultivating loyalty is important, after all, and this man has shown it in spades, running until he was injured to bring his king (and how grateful they are for that here) the news that the Kou Empire has an army at the gates.

 

It isn’t the best timing. Sinbad is sitting in the throne mostly because he can’t walk anywhere else, and Ja’far has hurried off to who-knows-where. Ah, well; if he can’t exactly run at the danger headfirst, he can at least bluff it out until his advisor and his Magi return. 

 

He sits deeper in the throne, arms braced on the sides, and nods to the guards on the door. “When he arrives, let him in.”

 

_At least I have his brothers._

 

Ja'far takes a deep breath before he makes to walk into the throne room. Composure is key, no matter how he still swallows down panic--of two different sorts, concern about _Aladdin_ and _Judal_ and then the game of politics to follow--the latter is the _easy_ part, _children_ are the worst.

 

Never mind that the look of the messenger doesn't bode well, and Sin's face isn't exactly a picture of happiness, either.

 

"Sin." Walking in empty handed doesn't make anything look good, Ja'far knows, and he steps close, uninterested in their guards overhearing much. "Aladdin and Judal are both gone."

 

Ah.

 

Well.

 

Sinbad straightens his spine, ignoring the creaking, the aches, and now he wishes he’d taken Ja’far’s advice and pried Judal off Aladdin earlier. Still, if there’s nothing to be done about it, all he can do is nod. “Very well. Wind your wires tight, we’re about to have a visitor. Still, his brothers should be enough collateral, from what I know of the family.”

 

Ja'far sucks in a slow breath, his heart beating too-fast. Well, if that isn't the last thing he wants to hear. "… Before they left, it seems Judal saw fit to do away with our _collateral._ "

 

Sinbad is silent for a moment, hands gripping the edge of the throne. He swallows hard, running through situations in his head, current strengths, his own status, and breathes out a slow breath. His pulse pounds with the oncoming rush of battle, even if his head warns him that it will be a short one. “Stay close to me,” he says quietly.

 

The sound of booted feet marching closer isn’t an encouraging one.

 

For all of his careful planning and foresight, all of his skill in freeing Sinbad, Judal, and Aladdin initially--it means nothing if there isn't a steady follow-through, and _that_ , this time, he has certainly lacked.

 

 _If we live through this, I am never neglecting to scold you about your health ever again_ , Ja'far vows, straightening next to Sinbad's throne rather than a half-step in front of it as his hands fold into the sleeves of his robes. Better this way, no matter how he'd much rather be more on-guard and protective.

 

The door swings open, and the way Ren Kouen's gaze swivels immediately and sharply to the throne--to Sinbad--to _him,_ appraisingly--Ja'far's last bit of hope drops. 

 

He _knows_. 

 

 _How_ he knows, Ja'far hasn't a clue. He imagines Kouha had something to do with it, and he curses the small amount of pity he took upon the servants within the palace that are native to Balbadd. One of them, without a doubt, and they were probably paid handsomely to supply the information. 

 

"King Sinbad--I hear you are trying to make yourself ruler of yet _another_ country." 

 

 _Rude_ , Ja'far thinks, lips pursing already at how Kouen doesn't dare bow his head at all, and the pair of men at his heels--probably some of _his_ generals--aren't any better. 

 

"Perhaps my brothers neglected to tell you of the Kou Empire's claim already upon Balbadd."

 

Sinbad firms his jaw, his eyes like cold steel as he stares at the man waltzing in as if he owns the place. “Ren Kouen,” he responds, purposely leaving off any honorific--if they’re going to be rude, he can show them a master at work-- “You enter my new palace by means of force. I take it you mean to end our long stalemate over this starving port city.”

 

He leans forward, holding the man’s eyes-- _damn it, don’t look at Ja’far, look at me, you shouldn’t even know who he is_. “My claim on this country is a legitimate one, deferred by the rightful and elect king of Balbadd. What you and your brothers claimed was nothing but brute force and brutality.”

 

"Balbadd was long under our governance before any 'king-elect' deferred it to Sindria. Any attempts to make it into a 'republic' obviously failed, and that is why my brothers were sent in, to manage it properly." Kouen's head tilts, finally allowing a glance in Sinbad's direction. "Any force and brutality was a necessary thing."

 

“It would seem the people of Balbadd saw it differently.” Sinbad sits back, raising one eyebrow. “And that is why it is I who am on the throne. I will hold treaty talks with you, should you wish to surrender your claim.”

 

Kouen snorts. "I am glad to see you still have a sense of humor. I wonder if my brothers are still so amused?" 

 

Sinbad hates this. He hates it, because he would _not_ have killed the Kou brothers, no matter their transgressions. Making Kouen furious is a poor side effect, but if given the choice, this needn’t be the sort of war where all prisoners are executed. Now there is no choice; if one of his men is captured, they’ll be murdered, likely tortured until death, in revenge. It’s _not_ how he wants to fight this war, but he wants even less to admit failure of custody over the brothers, or that he hadn’t been able to control his own Magi.

 

Sinbad takes a deep breath, and begins open warfare. “Likely not. They were executed for their crimes.”

 

Kouen's generals shift with the narrowing of his eyes, and immediately, _instantly_ , his gaze is on Ja'far again. "By your assassin, I can only imagine. Word travels fast. They call him 'the White Ghost'--how fitting, to go along with your _White Queen._ " 

 

There's no point in denying it, and so Ja'far's head inclines, content to stare down his nose at Kou's emperor. Better, really, if he doesn't deny it, Ja'far thinks. The Kou Empire doesn't need more reasons to hate Judal. Ugh, but _names_ \--now he's noticed enough to _have them_. This is about as bad as it could possibly get. 

 

"Is there anything else I should hear of before I take back Balbadd's throne from you, Sinbad?" Kouen smiles, and it's far from kind. "Perhaps the quickest route to Sindria, so I might enjoy myself on your throne as well in the near future."

 

Sinbad stands. It’s the only thing to do, at the top of the stairs leading to the throne, and even if he puts most of his weight on one knee, he knows he makes an impressive picture. The power in him thrums, ready to channel through one of his vessels, and he answers with his arms folded, eyes narrowed. “The only way to Sindria, _Emperor_ , is through me.”

 

"A convenient path, then," is the snide retort to follow, and Kouen waves a hand to his men, a dismissive motion as if they are _unneeded_ , and ah, Ja'far wants to strangle him on the spot. "I have wanted to cross blades with you for some time--shall we consider the winner of such a duel a _true_ king? Or are you inclined to bring your Magi into this? I was hoping to see his face." 

 

“I’ve sent him away.” _And just now I’m glad I don’t know where. At least he’s out of this._ “I know how the sight of you sours his stomach.”

 

He waves to Ja’far, urging him back the same way, drawing out the short sword of Baal. Even that much motion _aches_ , but there’s nothing for it. “Should I make it fair? Give you the first blow?”

 

Kouen laughs, and Ja'far only steps back to avoid the initial clash. 

 

He's not so fool enough to think coming between the raw power of the only two _multiple_ dungeon capturers alive is a wise decision. Far better, when steel crashes into steel, when electricity and flame sizzles against one another, to stay back, lifting one arm to shield against the sparks, with his gaze trained upon the pair of Kouen's generals.

 

Ridiculous, to think they would stay back as well. 

 

Kouen _has_ done his research, bringing a pair of them that are more brute strength even before drawing upon their household vessels, but Ja'far yanks the first one down before he can join the fight and strike, the second in quick order, and the _full_ extent of their strength isn't something he grasps until one simply winds the length of his wire about one hand, nearly ripping it from his arm--and his arm with it, judging by the sudden _shock_ of muscles strained and yanked upon in his shoulder. 

 

The less magoi he uses, the better. The less he uses it through his household vessel, the better for Sinbad. 

 

 _Damn it_ , but they've made so many mistakes already.

 

Strangely little is known about Ren Kouen. Perhaps that’s because all that _needs_ to be known is known by everyone--that is, that he’s both smart and dangerous. Sinbad has known this for a while, and it’s hardly a surprise when Kouen comes at him, eyes glittering with a lust that makes him think i _t’s a feint, it’s a feint_ louder than any real words. 

 

The power of Baal courses through Sinbad, and he lifts off the ground, the aches and hurts banished to another body, another time as his body changes. Kouen looks more like a beast than a man now, all leonine grace and razor-sharp claws, and Sinbad meets them with his blade seven, eight times within an eyeblink. Sparks fly from the clash, and a hard blow sends them both flying back, changing quick as a snake to a new form, trying fire against steel, water against strength, domination against conquering.

 

Sinbad can’t tell if he’s injured anymore. He’s bleeding, and he can smell that Kouen is too, both of them scorched and pummeled. He doesn’t dare to look away to see how Ja’far is doing--if he couldn’t take care of himself, they’d never have made it this far as a team.

 

Sinbad changes again, strength blazing through an indestructible form, body armored with a crocodile’s scales as he swells in size. Everything’s _wrong_ , he knows he’s been wrong-footed from the start, but he can’t even _think_ of the outcome when his body lusts so for combat.

 

Either way, it’ll be over soon.

 

In the end, keeping them _away_ from Sinbad is as good as he can manage.

 

Ja'far hates that. Down one, another is up, repeat ad nauseam. Kouen's flames are too hot, the force of blows so much that he can feel it through the floor until it makes his knees wobble, and it's with a burst of irritated rage that he finally gives in, snarling out the name of his own extreme magic to fell at least _one_ of them in a crackling burst of electricity that leaves his nerves singing and his eyes wildly bright. 

 

The second general hesitates, and that's the moment that Ja'far needs to _catch him_ , ripping his feet out from underneath him, slinging him bodily into stone walls as he wipes blood from his own nose, and turns in time to watch Sinbad's own fight. Only then does he feel the impending rumble of magic _churning_ , and ah, god, his heart falls. Just when he thought maybe they'd get _ahead_ , if he could join Sinbad's side properly with both of them against Kouen--

 

"If you don't wish to _hand me_ Balbadd's throne," are Kouen's snide, _laughing_ words, "perhaps it's best if it is destroyed, and I rebuild it as I see fit!"

 

There’s no more magoi to call on. 

 

Sinbad’s used far too much of it already today, in just keeping himself _upright_ for this fight, in keeping his limbs in some semblance of working order, not to mention the quick changes, trying to keep Kouen on his toes, off-balance.

 

He’d _thought_ it was _working_.

 

 _“I raised Kouen’s dungeons myself,”_ Judal says in his memory. _“I made the strongest ones I could.”_

 

He believes it now. The swell of power washes over him a second before it strikes, and this form _isn’t fast enough_. All he can do is brace against it--

 

And out of the corner of his eye, he sees a familiar blond head running towards them.

 

Ja'far rips a wire away from his captives, the bite of it returning to him too fast cutting into his arms in a way that hasn't happened in _years,_ but it's _fine_ , if he can grab Sinbad in time. _Anything_ , to pull him some distance away, because a retreat is smarter at this point, and certainly Sin can _feel_ that if he can't see it--

 

For the first time since he can remember, he misses his mark, Sinbad suddenly not _there_ when that wire loops out to catch him and drag him away from the immediate rush of Kouen's power--wide and destructive and _heavy_ , Ja'far can tell before it even hits--and that _failure_ is the last, panicked thing he thinks of before his own world dissipates into blinding white flame, the rubble of the crumbling, _melting_ palace blurring across his vision. 

 

" _Sin--!!"_

 

~

 

When Ja'far wakes, his entire world is agony. 

 

It's no good to bolt like he does. The movement _hurts_ , leaves him gasping for a full breath, and that aside, it does him no good with how his arms are bound above his head, hard, unyielding metal cutting into his wrists. Blood runs down his arms in slow, dripping rivulets--he was careless in that fight, far too careless--and Ja'far sinks his weight back down into his knees, sagging against the shackles that bind him. 

 

_Careless. Stupid. Where is Sin?_

 

It's a panicked realization that they aren't sharing a dungeon cell, that he can't _feel_ the man in any way, shape or form, and Ja'far sucks in an unsteady breath, shutting his eyes to calm his racing pulse--or at least, try to. It doesn't work, not when he remembers how he failed in the last moments to try and save his friend, and now, not feeling a thing, it's--

 

"Ah, he's awake, my Lord."

 

Ja'far is sure that he hisses far too much like a snake, rearing up at the first cast of a familiar shadow. _Behave_ , he tells himself, _for at least a few minutes. Better that way, to find out about Sin._

 

Kouen has longed for this day. He hadn't known it at the time--no, none of them had known about this White Ghost, or what he means. But the dream had been there all the same, the fiercest of desires to crush his enemy into dust, and to possess his most precious thing.

 

And now, he's done both.

 

"So I see," he murmurs, and a flick of his hand sends his own advisor scurrying out of the room. It isn't as though there aren't a thousand things to attend to in Balbadd, not with the disarray of the place. 

 

He steps forward a few steps, more confident about eluding the snake's bite when he sees how fruitless those struggles are. He sends out a bit of his own power into the chains, winding them more tightly still, all the better to watch the man fight. "And now that you are awake, we can discuss a few...matters."

 

"Where is my king?" 

 

It's the only matter he cares for. And Kouen, when not looking strictly for a fight, is a wholly different man. Ja'far can tell it in an instant, down to how Kouen likes to watch him struggle, and for that he schools his expression, not even flinching as his arms are jerked at a sharper angle still. 

 

Kouen's lips twitch. It's not quite a smile, but better to save that, because it's going to get much, much better. He watches the man's face carefully--how odd, that all his information for years had pegged him as no more than a government pawn, an efficient clerk--and prepares to savor this reaction. 

 

"I'm taking very good care of your precious king," he says, and ah, he allows himself a bit of a smile now. "As good care as you took of my brothers."

 

"Liar." It sounds hollow on his own tongue, and the tightness in his chest, the _empty,_ cold lack of strength and power backing him that he's felt since Baal deemed him a part of Sinbad's household makes it even _worse_. "Sinbad isn't so _weak_ , not like they were." 

 

Kouen moves, dropping something onto the floor in front of Ja'far. It lands with a metallic ping and rolls in a slow circle, no more than a brass circle with a little gap for the earlobe, marked with a crimson stain. "I have more," Kouen says, his blood singing from how much he's enjoying this. "This was the cleanest bit I could find of him. Would you prefer a limb?"

 

Ja'far sees red. 

 

He doesn't think of the effort it takes to push himself up, nor the way his legs threaten to buckle as he lunges, yanking so hard against his chains that he nearly rips his shoulders out of joint. He _can't_ think, not with the thrumming of his pulse hot and hard in his ears, the hiss and snarl of his breath, the desire to tear this man _apart_ , to present _his_ limbs to what remain of his relatives--

 

There's a _little_ bit of satisfaction in spitting in Kouen's face, but only a little, when he thinks of those earrings and how they were a gift so many, many years ago and how Ja'far wished a dozen times over that Sinbad would replace them with something more fitting for a king but no, he kept wearing brass all the same. "I'll kill you," is his hissing rasp. "I will _kill you_ , and you will regret every blow you ever landed upon him."

 

This is better even than he'd imagined. 

 

Kouen wipes his face on a sleeve, the smile widening as he straightens up, bringing his foot down onto the assassin's face, shoving his head down with all the strength in his legs. "He had no part in the world I am building but to make me stronger," he hisses, eyes glittering. "And tonight, after I have fed his arms and legs to the dogs, you will kneel by my throne."

 

It isn't enough, to have this man hate him. Kouen needs to possess him, own him, as thoroughly as he'd ripped those brass earrings away.

 

Ja'far's teeth grit, cheek grinding down into the hard stone as his body buckles no matter how he tries to shove back. The tension in his arms is nearly unbearable as exhausted as he is, the shaking that won't _stop_ a dozen times worse--Sin is dead, he's dead, he's _dead_ \--and god, he's fighting a losing battle. 

 

"I'd rather die." _Kill me already, you son of a bitch._

 

The worst part is that he knows Kouen _won't_.

 

Kouen removes his foot, regaining some of his composure as he straightens up. Careful, careful. He'd started to enjoy himself too much and forgotten what he came here for. Brute force got him here, but it's less desirable in victory. "We will see," he says instead, and reaches down to fist a hand in soft pale hair, yanking the man's head up. "I will unbind you from this wall. You have no weapons, no vessels that will respond to you, and all your allies have fled or been killed."

 

He tosses a pair of elegant silver manacles onto the ground, then wrenches the ring binding Ja'far to the wall out of the wall. "Let me know when you wish to have them exchanged. If you don't do so before tonight's dinner service, I will send a messenger to my man in Sindria to start killing your king's bastards. He had quite a lot of them, didn't he?"

 

It takes everything in Ja'far's power not to lunge again and attempt some sort of bodily harm, never mind that he knows it's a fruitless effort.

 

Even if he had the mind to do it, his body sags, trembling as he forces himself to sit up properly, spitting blood and grinding his teeth. Kouen has done more than merely research _him_. There's no way to prove that he has anyone within Sindria, but it's highly likely that he does, just as much as Ja'far has men within the Kou Empire. At the very least, it's someone from Al-Sarmen, notorious for slipping past Judal's shields like ghosts, and that singular thought alone is more terrifying than ever before. 

 

And god, but Sinbad is-- _was_ , Ja'far miserably thinks, and the thought makes something in his chest twist, makes his jaw clench to keep his eyes dry--notorious for having so, _so_ many illegitimate children. 

 

 _They're worth it_ , Ja'far tells himself, no matter how his head spins with the indignation of it, how it feels all the more like Kouen is digging his heel into his head again and grinding his face back down into the floor. _Sindria is worth it. As long as I am still here, I have to protect its future, at the very least_. 

 

"That's… unnecessary."

 

If he's going to do this, he won't do it like a five year old, kicking and screaming. Ja'far's chest heaves from the effort it takes to lift just his eyes and glare. "Exchange them now, if you wish to have me at your dinner table so badly." 

 

Kouen's smile is a clear, tight thing, like the feeling of triumph in his chest. He doesn't call an attendant for this--no, this is something he wants to do himself, savors the idea of doing himself. Rather than bending or kneeling, he yanks Ja'far's chains up, turning the key and removing the cuffs, swiftly replacing them with the more elegant pair. 

 

It's the idea of the chains more than the binding themselves, impregnated with magic and his own will as he clasps them into place. "I said service, nothing about my table. You will be pouring my wine."

 

He looks down over Ja'far's bloody, torn clothing, and allows himself a smirk. "Changing your clothing must be difficult with those chains on. If you like, I will assist you."

 

 _I'll pour it in your lap, more like_. No one said he had to be graceful about it, after all. Ja'far snorts, gaze briefly flickering down to the delicate link of chain between his manacled wrists, annoyingly mindful of the weight of magic he feels there. Well, it's enough to contain him for now, until his magoi restores. Surely, Kouen has thought about that, so he'll need a plan before that point. 

 

"I don't need your _assistance_." More annoying is the way his legs still wobble the moment he _thinks_ of putting weight upon them and standing. _Just a little longer, until a knife comes along and finds its way into this bastard's neck._

 

"What a pity. Very well, here you are." Kouen pulls out two sets of clothing, and ah, all the information from Al-Sarmen, now that he knows to ask, is well worth the pittances they require from him. "Of course, I cannot have you disgrace my table with your appearance, so feel free to don either of these."

 

There is always the possibility that the man won't know, or won't care, that one is the mark of a Kou Empire personal slave, the other a rough-spun thing given to the menial laboring serfs of a faraway land to the North, where all the people have soft-spun silver-white hair and hide from the cold indoors. 

 

"Or you could go naked."

 

_I will have you naked, stripped bare in your mind and laid out for me to see, me to use as I will. I will have you vulnerable, and I will watch you squirm as I wind your springs more tightly still. I will have you at my mercy, and I will show you none._

 

It's a stupid idea, sneering in Kouen's face, though an impossible thing to stop, when his blood already boils and won't calm. Ja'far has never claimed to have the most even of tempers, after all. "There is _nothing_ about the robes of a Sindrian general that are a _disgrace_. I'll wear them and the blood of _your_ men, thank you--and I can assure you, it is _far more_ their blood upon me right now than my own." 

 

It isn't that Kouen minds the Sindrian robes. Honestly, seeing them torn and bloodied on the body of someone wearing his chains makes his heart race, and if this Sindrian general were only a woman, Kouen would have her on her hands and knees by now. A shame, that, but he's heard of a couple of Sinbad's generals that will look good on their knees soon enough.

 

No, the problem is that he can't allow Ja'far to defy him, not even once. 

 

"If you're certain," he says, voice appraising. "Though they are so tattered. One could easily imagine that such rags would tear during service, leaving you entirely exposed." His eyes flash. "I did say that you could go naked, so if that is your choice..."

 

Laughable, to think Kouen wouldn't strip him bare if he wanted to regardless of what he wears. _I'll bite your hands off if you try_. 

 

Maybe he _is_ being a child about this, but there's no need to give into every damned demand of this man, not _yet_. "Do you want to see me naked so badly, _Emperor?_ I suppose that explains the marked lack of your own heirs running about."

 

Kouen’s hand flies back, but he restrains himself. This one won’t crack so easily as a bit of a beating, after all. He lowers his hand, folding his arms across his chest. This fool doesn’t know what he says. “Suit yourself,” he says, voice tight and controlled. As he turns to leave, he mutters a word of power, and daggers drag through the air in a whirlwind, leaving little to the imagination. “Someone will be by to fetch you for service in ten minutes.”

 

Ah, well. It was worth it, for pressing a button. And if he's going to be naked, Ja'far will be naked in Sinbad's honor. _I did say I'd strip for you on the battlefield, didn't I? My apologies, for not having the chance. I'll do it now, though I won't be pouring wine for him naked like I would for you._

 

He's not going to think about that right now, though.

 

The _fun_ part, of course, is that Kouen's servants are terrified of him. _Fetch him_ his ass--a funny thing, when if he as much as hisses through his teeth, they scatter. Never mind if he's weak and tired and bound, every single one of them he could kill in a moment, and he _does_ wonder what Kouen would do if he murdered half his attendants on the first night. 

 

Primly, Ja'far sinks back into a wall, knees drawn loosely to his chest. Somehow, he has to get ahold of a spy, and send word to Sindria. If nothing else, _they_ need to find Judal and Aladdin and prepare properly--ah, god, but what happens to Magi if they lose their king? _Both of them, at that,_ Ja'far thinks with a grimace. Perhaps it's better--especially with Judal--if they are unreachable, at this point.

 

~

 

Balbadd gets cold at night. That’s some consolation to Kouen, that the White Ghost will be shivering on a cold stone floor--even if it’s not _enough_. 

 

There’s something he’s missing. There’s something _unsatisfying_ about having killed Sinbad _here_ , about their final showdown being Balbadd. It should have been his own Palace in Kou, or Sindria, something significant rather than this paltry city-state hardly worth the lives of his brothers. 

 

(Ten years ago, he would have mourned. Twenty, he would have wept. Now, he just laments the loss of their utility in his wars.)

 

The next morning, decision made, Kouen’s caravan sets out for Sindria. Even with the head cut off the snake, the body may still thrash; better to drain the lifeblood and rip out the spine, crushing the wriggling thing beneath his feet. Ja’far will be next to him on his wagon, of course, and once again is presented with the two sets of robes. “I daresay you’ll want _one_ of them,” he offers casually. “This wagon has no cover, and the _sun_ does get hot down south.”

 

Weighing pros and cons, and with the dried blood of a guard still between his toes (well, if they try to touch him, of _course_ he would kick their faces in--literally), Ja'far wonders how useful it is to _burn_. _Not very_ , he thinks with a sigh, never mind that a _bit_ of sunburn would lead to a dozen more freckles, something _Sinbad_ would have appreciated. A cold night is one thing, and something he's relatively unfazed by; the desert's heat has never been his specialty. 

 

He needs to be alive and _useful_ , if he's going to properly warn Sindria.

 

"Fine." His head cocks. "Though I will certainly wear nothing from _your_ country." 

 

“I wouldn’t think to coerce you so.” Kouen tosses the slave’s robes into the wagon, and presents Ja’far with the roughspun tunic from that faraway land so foreign he can’t even pronounce the name instead. “It is something of a tradition, in my Empire, to allow the slaves to keep their native garb. We find it helps to remind them why they lost so devastatingly when they see what finery _our_ slaves wear. Shall I dress you? It must be impossible, with those chains.”

 

Ja'far can't suppress the roll of his eyes. Lovely speech; even funnier this emperor thinks him a slave. Honestly, Sinbad has dragged him into worse things a dozen times over. 

 

_What I wouldn't give for one of those plans of yours right now, my king._

 

"If you must." _Not everything need be a battle_ , Ja'far reminds himself, no matter how his pride twitches. It was a good night, showing Kouen how very disinclined he is to behave. Now, perhaps, all the better to be passive for a few minutes, at least.

 

Just as suddenly, Kouen loses all taste for the activity. It had been so much better at first, when the White Ghost was all anger and struggles and frightened refusal to believe himself alone. Now, he’s simply cold, shut off, and it makes Kouen want to snarl.

 

He snaps a finger, and an attendant comes to yank the clothes on to the man. “I’d think Sinbad would at least have been reliable for having an _attractive_ right-hand person,” he grumbles, turning to stare boredly at the road in front of them. “In all things, really, he turned out to be such a disappointment.”

 

Ja'far bites his tongue at first, never mind the amused snort that escapes all the same. "My apologies for not being to your taste," he blandly drawls, settling down again with elegant cross of his legs. "I am sure all of those nights fantasizing after you learned of my existence must be the biggest disappointment of them all."

 

Kouen smiles thinly. “It will be a great relief to reach Sindria. Your presence makes me want to torture someone, and I can only imagine there will be plenty of opportunities, no matter how scarce the food there has been.”

 

It’s base of him to resort to such low threats, he _knows_ , but this man gets under his skin like few others have ever done, enough to make him forget about how much he wants to enjoy this and simply _hurt_ Ja’far.

 

Dangerous, that. He’ll have to be more careful.

 

Ja'far leans his head back as if contemplating. "That will be a little difficult for you to enjoy, all things considered. But ah, yes, the fish _around_ the island truly do deserve some punishment for being annoying to catch this time of year. Have at it."

 

He better not be wrong. Judal's shields _better_ still be there. It will give him a little bit of time, at least.

 

At least _there_ Kouen can smile, relaxing back onto the wagon, cracking the whip against the camel’s side. “Ah, the infamous Sindrian shields.”

 

He doesn’t say any more.

 

Is he wrong?

 

Ja'far's eyes narrow briefly. There are a dozen things he dislikes, but being _wrong_ \--misinformed, more than anything--is the worst among them. Is that where Judal got to-- _Kouen?_ No, there wasn't enough time for that to happen.

 

He hopes.

 

"You've heard of them? I must admit, my king's books lend them too much glamor." 

 

Ja’far makes Kouen want to _tear his hair out_.

 

After a quiet moment, he says calmly, “You don’t seem to quite understand yet. I have won. Sinbad is dead. Sindria is mine. Balbadd and Heliohapt and Partevia and all the rest of them are mine. _You_ are mine, and so are all the people within Sindria--and I do not have Sinbad’s _mercy_.” 

 

He turns and stares at Ja’far, steering with one hand. “If Sindria refuses to kneel to me, there is nothing more I want from it. I will gladly boil the seas and rain fire upon her people. I will _gladly_ throw the children from the towers. I will gladly sell off the women as slaves and the men as scrap meat. All that matters to me is that it is no longer _in my way._ Do you quite understand, man of Sindria?”

 

"It bothers you," is all Ja'far says, and very mildly at that, "when someone refuses to be cowed beneath your hand. Best that you turn back now, and pretend Sindria does not exist; otherwise, you will be a very frustrated man indeed."

 

Kouen shuts his mouth. He’s quite through with being _baited_ for the day. Ja’far will see, when they get to Sindria. Then, he’ll understand. “I should throw you to my men for their amusement tonight,” he remarks, hours later. “After binding your hands to your feet to keep you from kicking their faces in like you did earlier.”

 

Ja'far would be a liar if he said he wasn't enjoying Kouen's frustration. A grab at such a base threat is proof of it enough, and enough to warrant another skyward roll of his eyes. "I believe you would be insulting them, Emperor Kouen. You said it yourself; Sinbad could not even be bothered to keep an attractive right hand."

 

Kouen knows when he’s made a mistake. Having Ja’far in his wagon was a mistake, and he can’t kick him out without _admitting_ the man is getting under his skin. Irritably, aware that he’s making an ass of himself, he fastens a length of chain to the manacles between Ja’far’s wrists, then shoves him out of the wagon to run alongside it. 

 

That cheers him up a _little_.

 

All right, Ja'far might have laughed out loud at that point.

 

Thanking Kouen for the chance to stretch his legs would be a bit too much, and something he'd chide Sinbad on at any given day. Ja'far almost does it in his honor, but bites his tongue at the last second, choosing instead to make better use of this, never mind that he's already tired.

 

There are a dozen good things about Kouen wanting him at a distance. Ja'far knows the caravan is being tailed by his own men--thank god there is some loyalty left in the world--and when the sun begins to dim, a glimpse of them between shifting sands is a relief. 

 

_Take word to Sindria._

 

For whatever it's worth, at least _one of them_ should make it back before Kouen's army does. Ja'far heaves a long sigh, sagging back into the side of the wagon and blowing a sweat-soaked strand of hair from his face. Ah, he's sunburnt after all. 

 

Kouen is less than courteous, the long nights on the road before they reach Sindria. He amuses himself too hard with the camp followers, enough that one of them has to be sent to the Healer’s tent before they go on the next morning. He keeps as much distance as he can from Ja’far, most days resorting to shoving him out the wagon to make him run. It’s petty and childish and he _knows_ it, but the man gets under his skin like no other.

 

All in all, it isn’t _too_ long before they reach Sindria, and Kouen allows himself a tight smile in relief, yanking Ja’far along with him. “Open the shields.”

 

It's bad, isn't it, when his first thought is _oh, good, Judal isn't dead yet_ along with _oh, good, the brat hasn't defected and turned traitor to_ us.

 

Nevertheless, Kouen earns a bored stare for his efforts. "No." If there is one thing Ja'far is certain of, it is of Judal's _skill_ , and these shields are meant for a Magi, not a dungeon conquerer. No matter how Kouen loathes the difference in skill, it's still plainly there.

 

Kouen nods. It’s the expected answer. He closes his eyes, sending a message by magic to his man inside, and relaxes back onto his heels, waiting. 

 

The empty street on the Sindrian side of the shields is suddenly not so empty, as a man walks up carrying a child over each shoulder as so much grain in a sack. He gives Kouen a low bow, then sets one down on his rump, picking the other, a girl of about six years, up by the hair.

 

“The thing about threats,” Kouen says quietly, “is that if they work once, there’s incentive to use them again. Perhaps you thought I was bluffing. She _does_ look like her father, doesn’t she?”

 

It takes Ja'far every bit of effort left in him to steel his expression. 

 

All of that is thrown swiftly out the window the moment the girl starts crying, reaching for _him_ and calling _his_ name, and Ja'far nearly regrets every moment of kindness he's shown Sinbad's lovers, every chance he'd taken--and there were many of them, a large portion of his free time, in fact--to visit Sin's children and spoil them with a sweet or two. Isra, that's this one's name, and her brother is Hatim--

 

Ja'far takes a deep breath, and promptly slams his foot into the side of Kouen's man's head, breaking his neck and snatching the girl into his arms before she can hit the ground. _That_ was a choice he hadn't quite intended on making, but it's done now, and he turns, shoving her back behind him too-roughly to have her back within the safety of the shields. "Stay in there!" he snaps over his shoulder, a hand grabbing for the back of Hatim's shirt to haul him back similarly, and only the does he lift his gaze to glare directly at Kouen. 

 

Kouen smiles.

 

“So you do have the key to the shields.”

 

There's little point in denying it now. 

 

Ja'far straightens, head sharply lifting. "I am King Sinbad's First Advisor and General, and in his absence, Sindria's king by his word. If you wish to enter Sindria, it will be through me and me alone."

 

“His _absence_?”

 

Kouen’s smile grows, and he looks over his shoulder. “Essinia. Come here.”

 

A wizard steps forward, face shrouded in his cloak.

 

Kouen brushes off his robes, walking back towards the end of the caravan. “While I fetch someone useful, show our guest just how _absent_ his beloved king truly is. The moment I killed him will suffice. As many times as you can before I return.”

 

As much as he’d like to see it himself (Essinia does very good recreations of his triumphs), there are other pressing matters at hand.

 

 

~~

 

Ja'far regrets none of it.

 

He's as white as a sheet, shivering and too-cold in Sindria's ocean breezes by the evening, but he regrets none of it. It takes half a dozen of Kouen's men to hold him down and let his wizard _work_ , and that is only when Ja'far finally yields, choosing to conserve his own energy rather than continue to struggle.

 

He kills four of them before that, anyway. 

 

Hopefully--and all he can do is hope, at this point--Isra, who really does look too much like her father, has half of Sin's sense, and ran off towards the palace. Maybe she'll let them all know of the mess that is brewing just outside of their door. 

 

In the meantime, he waits. If Kouen kills him from frustration at this point, he has literally done all that he can, less magoi and a proper weapon.

 

Some time around midnight, Kouen feels the air shudder. He looks up, and stands slowly, drawing himself up to his full height. “Have a change of heart?” he asks Ja’far, but ah, that’s not quite right, is it?

 

The beast stepping out of the city walls looks like something more mythical than real, but it bows before Kouen can order it shot, skinned, and mounted on his walls. “Emperor Ren Kouen,” it says, in a very credible imitation of a human voice, “Sindria yields to you.”

 

Kouen turns to Ja’far, raising an eyebrow. “You see? I didn’t need you after all.” That doesn’t mean he’s _done_ with the general yet.

 

Ja'far is so certain he's hallucinating.

 

He has to be.

 

He _needs_ to be.

 

His legs shake as he forces himself up, eyes blazing, throat tight. What is Drakon _thinking?_ "Drakon," he manages, voice somehow still level. It won't last, he knows it. "What is the meaning of this?" _You better have a plan. A very, very good one. You better be ready to murder Kouen and everyone within his army the second they step into Sinbad's country._

 

Ja'far knows he isn't, and that makes his heart sink faster than anything.

 

Drakon sighs, head deeply inclined to Ja’far. “Every country stopped sending aid or support the second they heard the king had fallen.” He spreads his hands. “Sindria is a nation built on a man. He has fallen. We are tired of watching our children go hungry for the sake of one who isn’t returning.”

 

Kouen watches. He watches, and hopes Essinia is taking notes, because this is one of his favorite moments yet.

 

"And you call yourself one of his generals."

 

Ja'far supposes he should stay calm to _spite_ Kouen, but there's no way he can. Not when his voice shakes, when his hands shake, and what little bit of usable magoi left in him sparks and snaps as he rears up. "You called yourself his _friend!_ We fought tooth and nail in Partevia for you, for your _wife_ , and this is how you repay him?! By lying down and surrendering his country to this _scum?!_ It isn't even your right to make that decision, it's _mine!"_

 

It another half a dozen men to jerk him back this time, a pair on each arm, another grabbing for his chains, one's hand in his hair, and it's still barely enough. Ja'far snarls, thrashing, his teeth bared. " _I'll kill you myself_ , before you let him just _walk in!"_

 

Drakon watches Ja’far struggle, shoulders slumped, even as the army starts to advance on Kouen’s signal. “We fight for the living,” he says quietly. “My friend was a good man, and a great king. He said the same.”

 

He lifts his head, gaze turning from Ja’far to Kouen. “That is what I told the others, after the third time _he_ had someone killed in front of the palace walls.”

 

Kouen gives a brief smile, and fists a hand like iron in Ja’far’s hair. “Quite foolish of you, Ghost, to believe I had only one man inside. You needn’t worry, they were only palace servants. I saved the children for you especially.”

 

A low hiss is the only warning Ja'far gives before he twists, lurches up and _bites_ , satisfied only when he tastes blood and nearly spits away flesh from Kouen's arm. "Next time," he snarls, "it'll be your prick, and we'll see how much you value _children_ to carry on your pathetic empire." 

 

At least Kouen doesn’t feel bad for giving in to his desires and backhanding the man across the face, so hard it sends him to the floor in a pile of the men holding him down. “Chain him,” he says, breath coming a little too fast, giving the lie to the calm face he puts on. “Chain him _more_ , I want his ankles touching each other and his back bent low before I lay eyes on him again.” 

 

It takes him a moment to regain his composure, and he straightens up, exhaling through his nose. “Then bring him to me tonight. He will serve me wine on my new throne.”

 

For once, Ja'far wants to cry.

 

It has nothing to do with himself. He'll take a knife to his own throat at this point, given the chance, so whatever Kouen does is moot. It doesn't _matter_ now, because he's done everything, absolutely _everything_ , and it's all useless and for naught and he has never felt so _helpless_. 

 

_I'm sorry, Sin. This is my fault._

 

He can't even look at the other generals, not when he _knows_ they agreed with Drakon, not him. Actually, that's a lie; he looks--to the youngest ones, at least, to Pisti and Spartos and Sharrkan and Yamuraiha, none of which can meet his eye. Masrur does, bless him, a lingering look of shared camaraderie without pity, and thank god _someone_ understands, someone is with him, and that makes him lunge and thrash and fight a moment longer before a well-placed hit makes him see stars, and his world kindly slips to black for the first time in days. 

 

When he wakes, and is clean for the first time since he can properly recall, Ja'far can only roll his eyes anew.

 

The servant girl is a Sindrian one, wide-eyed and terrified, and it's an unfortunate thing that he's too tired to offer her much comfort. 

 

"The Emperor… he… ah…" 

 

"Whatever it is," Ja'far says, too weary to fight another fight tonight, and possibly see her hurt for his insubordination, "it's fine." 

 

His ankles aren't _quite_ touching, but the weight in the chains there is unmistakably magicked, annoying enough that he knows he won't be breaking another man's neck with a kick any time soon. That, and with his wrists bound, makes dressing an impossibility, though he _almost_ takes back his previous statement to go naked, given his options. It's no longer just an insult--it's a _statement_ from Kouen, a sign of what he's conquered and _how_ he's conquered it, because Ja'far knows _well_ the red and black of Kou, the draping ruffles and fine silk of a favored advisor's clothing as opposed to a _slave's_ , and with those choices, he's not sure what is wiser. 

 

He knows one thing--playing the role of a slave gives him far less _access_ to anyone and everything.

 

_Forgive me, Sin. I won't wear this for long._

 

Tonight, it would be best not to pour the wine in Kouen's lap, for better or for worse. 

 

Sometimes, everything just comes together.

 

It doesn’t usually happen like this. There are usually petty grievances, problems, niggling worries that need his attention. 

 

Not tonight.

 

Tonight, he sits at the head of the table in Sindria, in Sinbad’s palace, with the throne all his. He rather wishes he were the sort of barbarian savage that would wear the skin of his enemies--ah, but then he’d have had to pull back his last hit, made sure to kill Sinbad neatly, and what he’d done was far too much fun for that. 

 

Enough, to have all the things in his possession that Sinbad had cherished. Enough, to have his land and his people and his men, a couple of whom are very attractive women. Have to see Essinia about the witch later, he thinks to himself, watching the girl eat. The magic users are annoying when they fight.

 

“More wine, Ja’far,” he orders, holding up his glass without looking at the man. “Tell me, how much did Sinbad pay you, any of you? I’ll double it, if you care to stay on with me.” 

 

It’s worth a shot. Now at least he can be truthful when he claims to have offered amnesty, at their executions.

 

It's a struggle, honestly, not to let his hand slip. He could blame it on the chains easily enough, Ja'far thinks, but no matter Kouen's current good humor, his jaw still aches from earlier, and it's less the backhand that sent him to the ground that bothers him and more the idea of it happening to someone far less capable of taking it. 

 

"I hardly care to share Sindria's bookkeeping with you, Kouen." He's gotten bored with mockingly respectful titles. Behaving only a bit at a time is all he can manage, and for now, that's cleaning himself up well and pouring the man's wine without smashing the jug over his head. The tension every time he speaks is annoying-- _do none of you have spines?_ he angrily thinks, too disgusted to even _look_ at any of the other generals, minus Masrur, the only one he still considers any sort of an ally. 

 

Kouen smiles thinly. Ja’far is ridiculously sharp, always keeping him on his toes no matter how quick he thinks he’s being--how did Sinbad _deal_ with that? Wasn’t he annoyed to the point of fury by the little shit every day?

 

“Sums matter not to me,” he says, cutting off a piece of meat, making a face as he chews. “Ah, better down south. No, I was thinking of letting the lot of you name your prices. What is it you want, hmm? Passage for your families, safety for loved ones, gold, homes in any part of the world I’ve conquered? Name them, I don’t doubt you’ll find me accommodating.” _Except you, Ja’far,_ he says with his eyes. _You are going nowhere._

 

"You will find," Ja'far lowly retorts, "that most of the lands you have conquered are less than pleasant. Do yourself a favor and don't embarrass yourself by offering property there, at least."

 

_You would also find me difficult to get rid of, even if you wanted to see me gone._

 

Kouen shrugs. Damn, but he _hates_ Ja’far. Sooner or later, he’ll _find_ the way to make the little shit writhe in discomfort. For now, he drains his wineglass. “Very well, your master has spoken for you,” he announces to the generals. “Consider amnesty and my offers off the table. At tomorrow’s supper I will ask again, and your promised reward this time will be escape from the executioner’s blade.”

 

He stands, not quite hungry to choke down more slop that they call _food_ here. “Good evening, gentlemen.” _Definitely ask the guards to bring me the little one_ , he thinks, eying the girl Pisti through narrowed eyelids. _She looks like a fighter._

 

Ah, well. That was unintended. 

 

It's a good thing, really, that Ja'far finds it much, much easier to bite the bullet and bow his head when it comes to others, rather than himself. The stricken looks help, even though he still wants to reach over and _slap_ some of them. _They're still young, they_ have _families and countries and even children, this isn't all about you and your goals,_ he reminds himself all the same.

 

It would be a lot easier, if it were.

 

"Forgive me, Emperor Kouen. My own impudence should not be a reason to punish the others." A dozen snide things are on his tongue. He swallows them down. "I would apologize, if you would allow their proper negotiations with you."

 

Kouen considers it. He _does_ like to keep on as many people as he can from a country after conquering it, by and large; it makes for smoother transitions, makes people more willing to work _with_ him instead of against him. 

 

He meets Ja’far’s eyes cooly. “That doesn’t look like a proper apology to me.”

 

It's going to be difficult to do this, without sounding or looking like he's mocking Kouen (because he _is_ ).

 

Ja'far hopes this _hurts_ Drakon, if he has any shred of loyalty left. He hopes it pains all of them, honestly, though to a lesser extent than _Drakon_ as he kneels with only a brief twitch of hesitation, head bowed and for that, he's _glad_ , so Kouen can't see the way his jaw clenches. "Then for that, please accept my deepest apologies as well." 

 

Kouen folds his arms. “On your knees.”

 

_In front of everyone you know, everyone you have left in the world, everyone who respected you._

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a big redheaded man start to stand. “I would tell him to sit,” he advises Ja’far conversationally. “For your well being as well as his own.”

 

"Masrur," is the low warning underneath Ja'far's breath, and he lifts his head, just enough to catch the Fanalis's gaze. "It's fine." 

 

_Not now. I still need you, so not now._

 

It's with a clink of chains that Ja'far sinks entirely to his knees, and probably, it bothers him less than it should. He isn't begging for his own freedom, at least. For that, maybe he is a martyr, but better that than a selfish coward. 

 

“Very well,” Kouen allows, sounding more _indulgent_ than anything. “I will repeat my offer tomorrow. For now, I will retire. Leave, if you wish. Bear in mind only that the people of...whatever name this land will bear soon...will fare better under you than my men, probably.”

 

Definitely going to get that little one in his bed tonight. She looks angry, and he’s in that sort of mood. 

 

“Ja’far, with me.” _You will sleep at the foot of my bed like a dog, until I think of a better use for you._

 

 _Every last one of you better negotiate wisely_ , Ja'far thinks, sparing not a glance over his shoulder as he takes his time climbing to his feet, as if he'd _intended_ to kneel on the floor and his rise is little more than a graceful stretch. 

 

 _Masrur, I will find you tomorrow. Just don't do anything like_ that _again._

 

It's tiring, all of these games, and for that reason Ja'far keeps his tongue in check as he simply obeys, trailing a step behind. Thank him for his generosity? No, too much pandering. Silence, given how much Kouen hates him (a satisfying thing, that), is probably more appreciated.

 

Odd, Kouen thinks to himself, that Sinbad hadn’t surrounded himself with more women. From everything he’s heard, the man had a weakness for them like his own younger siblings have (had) for sweets, yet he’s seen precious few of them around the Palace for all the brats his men have unearthed. Annoying, that he can’t take as much pleasure taunting Ja’far as he could if the man were female. “Do you have a woman of your own, Ja’far? Did you watch your king at his games, was that enough for you?”

 

At that, Ja'far can't help but scoff. _Why always the obsession with things like this?_ "In helping my king run his country, there was little time for such things. And I can assure you, His Majesty's chambers were always crowded enough without my presence." 

 

“All that activity, and not a single heir,” Kouen muses, tapping a finger against his chin. “Really, a man like that had no business sitting on a throne. No thought for the future, obviously.”

 

"Ironically, I told him the same thing," Ja'far deadpans. "It's funny, though. Now, I am starting to understand why Sinbad believed allowing heredity to govern one's choice in heirs an unwise decision."

 

Kouen starts to say something about the failed, ridiculous Saluja line, and stops himself. How does the man do that so fast, turn a perfectly innocent comment into…

 

It would be bad form to hit him again. Worse, to defend himself. Stupid, to ignore it.

 

 _God, I_ hate _him._

 

“Do you want a woman, Ja’far?” he asks, changing the subject through gritted teeth. “I could find you one, I’m sure.”

 

"Are you trying to breed more assassins? It's an unfortunate thing, if you are; such an ability is less inherited and more practiced, much like the ability to govern."

 

Kouen wants to _kill_ him.

 

With every moment, he regrets sparing this man’s life more and more, and wishes he could simply kill him now with impunity. Then again…

 

He turns, catching Ja’far by the throat and holding him up against the wall, relieving some of the pressure on his feet. “Tell me, Assassin,” he hisses, “how did my brothers die?”

 

Amusing, to push Kouen's buttons, when he is the only one the man's rage is directed at.

 

Ja'far smiles slowly, his eyes lidding. " _Easily_ ," is the only, simple word that he breathes.

 

Kouen slams the man’s head into the wall, then yanks him down the hall by the neck, pausing in the room only to string him up by his chains. He throws open the door, snarls at a guard, “Have a woman sent in here. Someone Sinbad _liked_.”

 

God, this is tiresome. It must be troublesome, thinking of so many ways to try and shake him. "So that would be all of them," Ja'far mildly retorts, stretching up a bit to tug his manacles further down his wrists to let them sit more comfortably. "Good luck raping her; most are opportunistic whores, anyway. His honest favorite isn't here." 

 

Conquering Sindria was _nothing_ compared to this. Kouen grabs the guard, eyes dark as he growls, “One of the generals. The witch or the little one, I don’t care. Have her _bound_.”

 

“And you,” he snarls, rounding on Ja’far as soon as the man runs off, “I’ve given you a hundred chances. You should be _beside yourself_ with gratitude that I haven’t slit your throat or thrown you to my men. You killed enough of their friends that they would gladly cut new holes into you just to fuck.”

 

 _Sorry, Yamu, Pisti._ There's only so much he can do, in that regard; war is never kind to women, least of all pretty ones, and they knew that, in becoming one of Sinbad's generals in the first place. _Maybe_ there's still a chance he can have them avoid it, if he can calm Kouen down.

 

A pity, that it's becoming harder and harder to bite his tongue as the evening wears on.

 

"I thought we settled upon that throwing me to your men would seem like an insult." Ja'far's eyebrows slowly lift. "Never mind that you still seem obsessed with the idea. Do you want to watch so badly? I'm rather boring, sorry; then again, from what I've heard of your prowess, that seems to be your taste after all."

 

“You like the sound of your own voice, don’t you?” Kouen’s voice is tight, dry as he surveys the bound man. For the first time, he considers raping the man himself, just to teach him a _lesson_ , but the idea of that sharp tongue grating in his ear the whole time saps what little desire he’d felt in the first place. “Mayhap it will be some comfort to your _friend_ when she’s on her back begging for mercy. Then you’ll know something about my _tastes_.”

 

It had been a mistake not to kill Judal, those years ago.

 

"I'm not sure what sort of women you have in _your_ country, Kouen," Ja'far lowly replies, leaning forward with a tilt of his head, "but neither Yamuraiha or Pisti are so _pathetic_ as to beg you for mercy. I have no doubts your little sister would have done as much, should she have ever had the _honor_ of lying with my king as she wished."

 

That’s it.

 

No amount of feeling superior, no amount of _crushing_ the man in heart and soul, can compare to the sheer _annoyance_ Kouen feels now. He yanks the door open, gesturing in a pair of guards. “Take this piece of filth down to whatever poor excuse Sindria has for a dungeon, strip him bare and pour icewater over him. Make him choke on it, and leave him there for the night.”

 

His eyes are dark, hard as he murmurs, “And in the morning, we’ll see how much fight there is left in you.”

 

The fact that his guards _hesitate_ nearly makes him kill them himself. “Don’t be _afraid_ of him, he’s bound and gagged! Take him to the dungeon already!”

 

All said and done, it was worth it. _And you should probably still be afraid of me,_ Ja'far idly thinks. _More than likely, I could still kill you_.

 

A pity, it isn't so easy with Kouen.


	20. Chapter 20

Truth be told, Sindria's dungeons are far from a 'poor excuse.' Perhaps it's because Sinbad has always seen fit to treat a prisoner _fairly_ , and also, how many prisoners have they ever _housed_ , really?

 

Ironic, that Ja'far should be one of the few.

 

Kouen's guards are clumsy and unskilled at torture at best, which is laughable. _Real_ water torture is terribly unpleasant, but even that isn't something Ja'far can't handle when done correctly. Instead, he's mostly left naked and cold, shivering as he huddles himself into a ball. There are worst fates. Kouen's bed comes to mind--god, he _does_ hope Yamu and Pisti managed well enough to avoid that--or being left out in the desert sun…

 

Best of all, he manages to catch a few hours of sleep, even with the moon filtering in too-bright from the barred windows. He doesn't let himself think of the moon for very long, not when Sinbad's compliments paid to him are-- _were_ often comparisons to it, and he bites his lip until it bleeds, stiffing the sudden, shocking heave of his chest in a sob, his mind swiftly taken back to watching the dogs of Balbadd's streets tear apart an arm that very distinctly belonged to his king--

 

It will feel good, when he can finally rest properly and join his king.

 

 _Not yet. Not yet, I have too much to do to_ think _about that._

 

How Kouen accomplishes anything is a mystery, what with how lazy his men can be. Ja'far wakes before them, cracking an eye open when the sun makes its first appearance, and he shifts slowly and carefully, stretching out aching limbs.  He'd be lying if he said a _real_ bed wouldn't be nice, just for a night. Ah, well. Small conveniences like that are unnecessary in times of war. 

 

Clothing, though--preferably something that isn't sopping wet--would be nice.

 

A key turns in the lock, and the door swings slowly open to reveal the bulk of Masrur, cloaked in rough cloth of Sindrian peasant making. He walks by the guards, who close the door after him, and hesitates on the other side of the cell, pulling off the cloak. “I brought this for you,” he says quietly, not quite daring to meet Ja’far’s eyes. Of course the general will be disappointed in him. Masrur is disappointed in himself. “If you will accept it from my hands.”

 

There are a dozen things that Ja'far _could_ say, and he opens his mouth, a scold on the tip of his tongue.

 

It sort of dies, though, in the end.

 

Masrur, honestly, has done nothing wrong. He, out of all of them, has certainly not, and Ja'far's lips wryly twitch as he remembers the night prior, with Masrur the sole general of the mind to shift and rise in protest for _him_. "You shouldn't be here," is the quiet scold instead, and Ja'far heaves himself to his feet with a clink of chains. He reaches through the bars, grabbing to rest his fingers over the back of Masrur's hand, rather than for the cloak. "If Kouen hears too much of it, I won't be able to see you at all. You already caused too much of a scene last night." _Thank you._

 

Masrur bows his head. “They didn’t listen to me. I didn’t know how to make them. I’m sorry.” It rarely bothers him, that he’s no good with words, but it had when they were gathered around that council table, everyone else making their passionate cases.

 

"I know. It's fine." Ja'far gives his hand another, gentle pat. "You don't need to make them. _I'm_ fine, Masrur." That, above all else, is probably what the man needs to hear, and ah, god, but it's sort of nice, being able to talk to one of them personally and reassure them. It makes him less angry--not that he was angry with Masrur to begin with, never him. "If Kouen offers you an out, I want you to take it. Don't stay here for me." 

 

“Please take this,” Masrur urges, pushing the cloak through the bars. The guards had been so strict to check that he wasn’t hiding anything _under_ the cloak they hadn’t worried about the thing itself. “I can break these chains easily, if you want. You must get back to him.”

 

"Masrur--" To hell with it. If asked where the cloak came from, he'll lie. Ja'far heaves a long sigh, taking the cloak with a shake of his head and wrapping it around himself, unable to stop the shiver of comfort that _does_ come from being wrapped up in something warm. "Sinbad is dead." It's bitter, hollow on his tongue, and Ja'far reaches up, yanking the sole earring from its spot, safely kept and tied within the strands of his own hair. Unnoticed, until now, thankfully, but how long that would last is anyone's guess, and so--"Hold onto this for me," he quietly insists, reaching out to press it into Masrur's hand. "As soon as you can, I need you to get a ship-- _somehow_ \--and start moving his bastards out of Sindria. Or hand them to the merchants and traders that we know are allies, I don't care, so long as they are out of here. I'll pay them myself, you know where my safes are."

 

Masrur looks down at the brass circle for a long, long moment. Even when he’d heard the news, when they _all_ had and had started talking about what to do, he hadn’t even _considered_ believing it. He frowns, curling his hand around the earring, being careful not to bend or break it, and looks down at Ja’far with something like confusion. “Is this a strategy? I will do as you ask, you need not lie to me. No one will overhear us, I would know.”

 

"I know." Ja'far leans back again, sucking in a slow breath. "It's a strategy so I can work. I was too hasty before--Kouen knows I favor those children. That's why I need them out of the country, so I can work unhindered without him harming any of them." 

 

Masrur nods, relieved. He’d _known_ it was just a strategy, that Sinbad couldn’t really be dead. “Understood. Is there anything else?” There are a hundred things he _wants_ to do for Ja’far, but few of them that would actually work, most likely.

 

"Don't stand up for me in public again." He gently flicks the back of Masrur's hand. "If Kouen realizes we are close, I won't be able to speak to you so easily in the future. I have him handled, anyway, trust me."

 

That makes sense, and Masrur nods. Ja’far has always been the best one to handle Sinbad. Surely Kouen isn’t any more difficult than their king. “Understood. I will go attend to your wishes now.” _Even if I hate to leave you in a place like this._ It feels _wrong_ , to see Ja’far, who’d always been the everything of Sindria to him, as much a part of it as Sinbad for all the years Masrur has known them, in a cell designed to house criminals, especially criminals against Sindria. But if this is what Ja’far wants...

 

"Good. You know to be discrete, of course." Ah, god, but it is something of a relief to know he has _one_ ally in this place, and Ja'far rocks back onto his heels with a little sigh. "I worry about you and the rest of the generals. Please take care of yourselves." 

 

Masrur nods. He squeezes one of the bars, enough to leave a slight impression of his fingers in the cold metal, and retreats to his task. It won’t be easy to find a boat big enough for all Sinbad’s bastards, but he’ll manage somehow.

 

When Masrur leaves, that sick, hollow little feeling returns. 

 

Another hour of sleep, if he can manage it, Ja'far thinks, even if he knows sleep won't come now that he's awake and thinking too much. At least he's marginally warm now, though that, too, will need to change before Kouen or his men set better sights upon him, and there's an urge to call Masrur back, to snatch that earring away again just to hold it for a few more seconds, but that, too, is a stupid notion at the end of the day. 

 

God, he's _tired_. 

 

The door to the dungeon opens, and one of the Sindrian maids enters, carrying the keys to the cells in shaky hands. Her face is a mess, bruises purpling on her arms and legs too, but her back is straight when she unlocks the cell, head held high. “The bastard wants to see you,” she says, wincing as she gives Ja’far a curtsy. “Says you’re to help him dress and pour his wine today.”

 

Lovely.

 

No use in hesitating, not when it prolongs the inevitable. He probably _should_ mind his tongue a bit more--he isn't the only one it effects, of course, when Kouen is in a foul mood--but it's so difficult when the man is honest to god so easy to torment.

 

"Did he say if he wanted _me_ dressed or not?" Ja'far can't help but wryly ask, and it's without pity, merely quiet sympathy that he adds, "If you or any of the others wish to leave the country, my Lady, I will find a way for you."

 

The woman snorts at that, pulling her shoulders back. “With all due respect, your lordship, blow it out your ear. There isn’t a one of us who won’t stay until this place sinks into the ocean. We know what it means.”

 

She hands him a change of robes. “He sent this. Said you must be cold. Ah, I can hide that cloak for you, if you want. I’ll bring it back tonight if he lands you in here again.”

 

This might, possibly, be the start of a decent enough day.

 

"With my mouth, I'll be back by the afternoon." _And I'll enjoy it, too._ "Thank you, my lady," Ja'far adds, the faint twist of his smile wry as he trades the cloak for Kou robes--at this point, it doesn't even faze him. "I know our king would be incredibly grateful for your service as well."

 

“He’d have me up against the wall for it, you mean,” she says cheerfully, with a bit of a wistful sigh for days gone by. She moves to help him into the robes, securing the fastenings with deft fingers. “Tell him we all miss him, yeah? When you get wherever he’s gone.”

 

Yes, a good day indeed. "I certainly will… mm, but first," Ja'far sighs, giving himself a last, careful stretch. " _This_ son of a bitch needs a run for his money."

 

Annoying, in a way, that Sindria's citizens--Sinbad's _women_ \--are so much more rallied behind him than Sinbad's _generals_. _I don't need them_ , Ja'far reminds himself as he leaves, ignoring the sidelong glances from other servants, a large number of them pitying. _Blow it out your ear, indeed._

 

Knock? Bow? _Most_ advisors probably did those things. Ja'far remembers knocking as the mildest form of courtesy to Sin, and so he bothers with that before simply opening the door, head far from bowed. "You asked for me?" 

 

Kouen looks up from his maps, relaxing back into his high-backed chair--one of Sinbad’s of course, but it suits him just fine. “I hear you’re quite a dab hand with the books. It seems Sindria is quite a bit behind in collecting taxes, particularly from the poor.” He pushes a mess of scrolls and sheets across the desk, nodding to the chair opposite. “Straighten this mess out.”

 

Just _seeing_ him makes Ja'far want to roll his eyes, but he refrains, stepping over to take a seat with a graceful smoothing of his robes before doing as he's told. "Sindria was never behind. There's merely a staggered scale for it, as there is little point in taking a man's last piece of copper."

 

“Ridiculous. No wonder the Sindrian people are starving.” Kouen hands over a set of large, leatherbound books. “These are the Kou Empire tax laws, and the applicable corrolaries for conquered territories wishing to remain somewhat soverign. I assume Sindria does not wish to fully assimilate, gaining the rights and protections of true Kou citizens?”

 

Ja'far lifts his head, eyebrows arching high. "Sindria is _starving_ because you closed off all access to our trading ports, not because of our taxation policies. And you can take those back, I don't need to read them." 

 

“So you know them well enough to enforce them already? Excellent.” Kouen leans back, eyes fixed on Ja’far. “Then I will put you in charge of assigning and collecting the taxes owed. I will of course have my own man go over the numbers for the first cycle, just to check that you are being entirely accurate.”

 

"I know them." _And every other country's, by proxy; all the better to compare and contrast and have the best system here within Sindria_. "But I have no intention of enforcing them. There is nothing wrong with Sindria's policies." 

 

Ja’far has been in his room for five minutes and already Kouen wants to kill him. “You will, because your Emperor has commanded it,” he says, clipped and tight. “And because if you don’t, one of my people will, using the codes for a hostile colony instead of a territory. And I will make certain that every starving bitch and her brats know it’s because of you.”

 

Ja'far snorts, his attention turning back to the scroll in his lap. "I have no emperor." 

 

Kouen stands, his patience at an end. “I had thought to be more tolerant of your _whimsy_ , but I have little time for this today. If you will not be an ally, you are an enemy. Remove those robes. If you will have the mouth of a guttersnipe you will be flayed as a slave.”

 

To be honest, Ja'far hopes it's publicly. "Are you certain you would not have me do your paperwork for you first, Your Majesty?" It's a terribly sarcastic thing, that title. "I doubt your own men can properly read your chicken scratch, whereas I have a great deal of experience after reeducating a number of refuges from Kou in how to write in a civilized manner." 

 

Kouen’s temper snaps. He grabs the man by the hair, hauling him upright with one hand and tearing the robes off him with the other, throwing him facedown on the desk. “We’ll see if your tongue is so sharp when you’re bleeding all over your precious king’s desk.”

 

The first lash is stronger than he intends, splitting the skin with bruising force, and he has to take a deep breath to calm himself down. The sight of blood helps. It always does.

 

It's funny, when men underestimate his pain tolerance. 

 

Al-Sarmen did that, too. Admittedly, he knows he doesn't _look_ like he can take a great deal of pain. Ja'far has to remember, actually, to flinch a little, choking on a hiss of breath, less he encourage Kouen to hit him even harder--and it helps that it _does_ hurt, welts and bruises combined with split skin never a pleasant thing. _It can join the rest of my scars,_ Ja'far blandly thinks, and ah, probably, he should cry out or something, but reminding himself of whorls and old, spilled ink spots in the wood of Sinbad's desk is far more interesting. 

 

It at least keeps him from laughing over Kouen's _remarkably_ short temper today. Oh, god, he's going to hurt later.

 

If there’s one thing Kouen understands besides war, it’s pain.

 

And Ja’far is in remarkably little of it.

 

“You’re barely feeling this, aren’t you?” he asks, letting fly with another half-dozen blows. One lands right on the curve of a buttock, and Kouen stops for a moment, staring. 

 

Well. Maybe he will still get some use out of this one, after all. 

 

“Though from this angle I can see why Sinbad kept you around, at least.”

 

 _Here we go._ Ja'far tries not to sigh like he's long-suffering into the desk, though it's _difficult_. Sarcasm isn't much better, but, well, the last urge to bite his tongue disappears when faced with comments about how he looks bent over. "Oh, no, your majesty. I can assure you, I'm in agony. Your mood swings do indeed give me a headache." 

 

Kouen steps forward, his head actually pounding now from the sheer loathing he feels for the man. Slowly, he runs a hand over the welts, down to the trickle of blood down the cuve of one pale cheek, smearing it close to the cleft. “Maybe if I covered your face, I could still make a gift of you to my guards.”

 

It hurts more, having them _touched_. More than that, it makes his skin crawl to have Kouen's hands on him at all, let alone so disgustingly _intimately_. His toes curl and twitch with the urge to kick a leg back, never mind how he's chained. "I wasn't aware you were fond of having eunuchs in your armies."

 

Kouen breathes in sharply, hand wandering down to squeeze the back of a thigh, somehow retaining a lot more flesh than the rest of him, even in this time of famine. “The idea bothers you,” he remarks. “Hmm. With such a lewd body as yours, one would think you invite it. Did your precious king enjoy the sight of you back here, hmm?”

 

Ja'far _does_ pride himself on his instincts--most of the time.

 

Now, however, he lends himself to a stupid reflex, one that makes him twist and slam an elbow into Kouen's gut, the heel of his foot into his shin, and it's enough to make him twist away, trying _very hard_ not to hiss like some cornered animal when putting marginal distance between them.

 

Not that it matters, though. Kouen _knows_ , now, that it pisses him off. "Funny, that you enjoy it so much," Ja'far sneers, "when Kou's standard of beauty seems better described as 'skinny, scantily clad boys.' Or maybe it was Judal's hair that you liked so much, I always did wonder why he refused to cut it." 

 

Kouen’s eyes flash. It’s worth the pain, oh _yes_ , now that he knows Ja’far doesn’t like being touched so intimately. For a moment he considers making good on his threat and throwing the boy to his guards--but no, this is something just for _him_ , something he needs to savor. Even if he isn’t a pretty woman, well, for the sake of putting him in his place, Kouen can manage. He’d managed well enough with Judal all those years ago, at Al-Sarmen’s insistence. 

 

“Get back on the desk,” he says quietly, and lets Ja’far see him adjust himself through his robes, lets him see that Kouen’s getting hard for him. “Or I will put you there, and you will not like it.”

 

If his legs weren't chained, this wouldn't be a contest.

 

Probably.

 

Ja'far could disarm him-- _probably_ \--and minus his metal vessels, Kouen is just like any other man, like Sinbad in a spar, and in hand-to-hand and with a bit of focus, Ja'far could nearly always take him down courtesy of sheer speed alone. He still considers it no matter his chains, his weight shifting back onto his heels.

 

"No."

 

Either way, there is no way in hell he will be a _willing participant._

 

Kouen smiles. “Very well.”

 

_Slow, slow. Not all at once. Make it last. Break him a little at a time, let him see how powerless he truly is, then grind him into dust._

 

Kouen moves faster than most people expect, and uses that now, grabbing Ja’far and slamming him back down. Then, he leans over, breathing in the man’s ear, “I will give you _many_ chances to be _nice_ to me, Ja’far. You’ve already wasted this one, and look where it’s gotten you?” 

 

He grabs, yanks, _twists_ , and hears the snap of bone in Ja’far’s calf, holding him down over the desk. “I don’t need you to walk.”

 

It takes everything in his power not to _scream_ , and Ja'far's lip is bloody by the end of it, his eyes wide as his chest heaves. His fingers claw into the wood of Sinbad's desk, nails breaking as he manages another, desperate attempt at shoving Kouen away--though _this_ pain brings him startlingly out of focus, his teeth gritting with every agonizing _throb_.

 

This is bad. Very bad. Kouen isn't going to heal him any time soon, and he'd underestimated exactly how _far_ Kouen would go, thinking the man wanted him for his skill and yet now, that _clearly_ isn't the case. He's crippled himself in more ways than one, all because he couldn't lie down and deal with the man's hands on him for five bloody minutes--

 

_No one but Sinbad has ever touched me, and you, of all people, certainly don't deserve to._

 

It's that thought that makes him regret it all less and less, and Ja'far thrashes, lunging backward against Kouen's hold with his teeth bared. "I don't need to walk," he hisses out, "to _kill you._ "

 

"Kill me? How ambitious."

 

Kouen is enjoying himself now, enough that he doesn't mind the wasted magoi it takes to hold the man down, just for long enough that Kouen can lash his arms and legs to the legs of the desk, spreading him wide, leaving him exquisitely vulnerable. "Ah, that is a much better way for you to look. If I ever doubted Sinbad's intelligence before, I certainly do if he used you for anything other than an ornament."

 

He can see that Ja'far is worth far, far more than that, of course. He just can't quite resist the urge to tear him down, not when he's finally found something that makes the man thrash and struggle.

 

Not only is Ja'far going to kill him--he's going to tear him to shreds, bit by bit, carve out his eyes and cut off his fingers and feed them to _Sindria's_ dogs--

 

His leg _aches_ , a sharp pain he can't ignore, especially when instinct--better, this time--bids him to focus his own, currently pitiful reserves of magoi there. The lashes on his back throb, and it's with a heaving, ragged breath that Ja'far sags forward, teeth grinding as his head bows. " _Now_ I'm an ornament?" he spits out. "And here I was joking about your mood swings. A minute ago, you wanted a bag over my head."

 

Kouen laughs, dragging his hands again down that soft flesh, pinching and squeezing the man's ass and thighs. "I hardly meant your face. This, though...obscene, hiding something like this under those robes. You're almost nice enough back here to pass for a woman." He leans forward, freeing his cock and rubbing the head of it over the inside of one smooth thigh. "Sinbad was probably too stupid to see it, too."

 

Bile rises up in his throat, and Ja'far hastily swallows it down with a snarl. "I am no _woman_ ," he grinds out through his teeth. _Kouen_ is the stupid one, and Ja'far does get a laugh that _he_ never saw it at all, that his men couldn't dig up that bit of information, and god, if that isn't his only saving grace. _He doesn't know that Sinbad ever touched me, he doesn't know how he looked at me, he doesn't know, he doesn't know._

 

Ja'far knows, though, and remembers it far too clearly in that moment. He huffs out a sharp breath, falling silent as he tries his best not to _think_ about it--any of it, from Kouen's words to the aching pain to the disgustingly slick slide of the man's cock against his skin.

 

"No?" 

 

Kouen leans forward, rubbing the head of his cock forward, up, between the cleft of Ja'far's ass, and squeezing the cheeks together around it, sighing. "Let me tell you what a woman is, Ja'far. A woman," he says, punctuating the word with a harder thrust, "is a person of soft curves and sharp nails who knows when--ah--to lay there...and be good...and take a man's cock."

 

He's too worked up by the smell of blood, and knows that it won't last long, the first time. Ah, well. There will be plenty more times, he'll make certain of it. "Right now," he breathes, "you are every bit my woman."

 

Ja'far won't just kill him. He'll drown the son of a bitch. He'll pull him up a dozen times before that, too, to kick his face in and watch him bleed until it baits the sharks. 

 

Amazing, how much he _loathes this_ when it isn't Sinbad. There's nothing _good_ about it--nothing but the disgusting panting of an animal in his ear, the slick drag of Kouen's cock that makes him hiss and grind his teeth until his jaw aches, too, and god, even the touch of his hands is enough to make his skin twitch and rebel, flinching with every drag of every callous over his flesh, his face too-hot with anger and humiliation.

 

A dozen insults are on his tongue. A pity, most of them, would point to him being in Sinbad's bed--a comparison he is loathe to draw, and so Ja'far for once is silent, seething and twitching with ill-concealed tension.

 

It's always better, when there's an element of challenge.

 

This, though, this isn't quite challenge--but it's still good, the way Ja'far hisses and clenches and squirms beneath him, obviously unwanting, his captive all the same. It's good enough that Kouen doesn't regret finishing soon, not when he knows now, knows how to make Ja'far make those faces, make him twitch and protest.

 

He spills on the small of the man's back, uncaring of whether it gets into the welts he'd left, pulling back with a sigh. "I'll be by to release your chains," he assures Ja'far. "Some time tonight."

 

Ja'far has never been fond of doing things the easy way. 

 

Now is no exception, when he turns his head to spit in Kouen's face. "Make it tomorrow," he hisses. "Maybe by then, I will have come up with the most creative way to see you dead beneath my hand."

 

Kouen has to pause to catch his breath, the sudden surge of anger freezing his lungs. "You," he says slowly, dragging a hand through the mess he'd made on Ja'far's back, smearing it over his face, "would better serve yourself and your country to mind your tongue. We will see how much good you are to the babes of Sindria-that-was when I have your legs removed." His eyes flash, locking with Ja'far's.

 

"Spit on me again and see if I don't."

 

No matter how his chest heaves with ill-concealed disgust, Ja'far's gaze is unwavering, his eyes sharp and too-bright. "Funny," he lowly rasps, all of his effort focused in not biting Kouen's hand, "Al-Sarmen tried similarly years ago. I wonder if some snakes can grow their tails back."

 

Kouen tuts, as if to a disobedient child. "What foolishness. You could be in finery sitting at my side right now. Instead I'm trying to decide whether to starve you to death in a dungeon or stick you in an outdoor cage for all the people to see."

 

He leans down, curling a strand of pale hair around a finger, tugging at it before giving Ja'far's face a slap. "Or maybe I'll lash you to a bed facedown, and only visit you to feed your nether end."

 

Well, there goes that effort.

 

Ja'far wonders if Kouen will ever learn that he _bites_ , and bites _hard_ at that, and he's certain he reaches bone with how viciously his teeth sink into the side of the man's hand. "I want none of your _finery_ ," is his snarl as he spits blood. "Do what you will with me--make Sindria angrier in the process, because if it isn't my hand that fells you, it will be someone else from this country!"

 

Kouen's hand slams hard into the side of Ja'far's face, as he jerks away with a hiss. For a second, he sees red, and the power gathers around him, prepared to sacrifice everything to get rid of this nuisance.

 

_No._

 

_Pull it together._

 

 _You knew,_ he reminds himself, _that someone so close to Sinbad would be tough. That's why he's fun to break._

 

_You guessed his weaknesses._

 

A few spoken words, and Ja'far is free of the desk, though his legs are lashed too tightly together by the chains for any real running. "Come serve me at luncheon," he says, quite a bit more amicably than before. "I have some entertainment I do believe you will want to see."

 

_I'm sure._

 

Ja'far doesn't bother saying it. Far better is catching himself against the side of the desk before his leg can crumple out from beneath him, still uselessly _weak_ , no matter how his own magic has done a fair enough job of setting the bone. He'd be a piss-poor assassin he couldn't at least patch his own wounds, but so help him, he _knows_ he'll need a real healer to look at it in the future. 

 

_How long until I can corner Yamuraiha and insist upon it?_

 

He does a thorough job of cleaning himself up, never mind that he'd rather douse himself in a hot bath for hours. His skin still crawls-- _itches_ , where Kouen touched him, and balancing his weight far more on one leg than another and limping makes his shackles that much more annoying. 

 

Nevertheless, he arrives as he's ordered, neatly dressed and with his head held high. Ja'far hopes dearly that Kouen's hand aches far more than his back and leg. Probably a lost hope, but one can dream.

 

Lunch is hardly the lavish affair dinner had been the night before. Kouen eats calmly, joined by a few of his own generals and a couple of Sinbad's, Drakon and Sharrkan notably, enjoying the way he holds out his glass for more wine at every opportunity. It takes quite a bit of wine to affect him, some natural tolerance he's always had, and by ten or twelve glasses in he sets the goblet down. "Now, I do believe that one of the best ways to acclimate a new country under my Imperial rule is to demonstrate every aspect of life. For example," he says with a smile, the far doors opening to admit several figures, "the judicial system."

 

It takes one of his generals who's more monster than man, and another poached from the arenas of Laem, to drag the bound man forward. Red hair is visible, matted with blood on one side as his men fell the man, forcing him to topple to his knees, yanking hard on chains fixed around his neck, ankles, waist and wrists. 

 

"I've always believed in fitting punishments to the crimes. Now, Ja'far, you know the former Sindrian system best. What punishment do you think would fit attempting to escape the rightful ruler, killing twenty-seven of his guards in an attempt to smuggle a good couple dozen children out of the country?"

 

He twitches a hand, and one of his men shoves a young girl forward. Kouen yanks her down onto his lap, slowly brushing the hair away from her neck. She's probably thirteen or fourteen, with dark hair and pale skin, flushed red with the effort of blinking back tears, jaw thrust out stubbornly as Kouen curls a hand around her waist. "Lucky for me that he saved the eldest for last, hm?"

 

This is another mistake to add to his list.

 

Ja'far's hands shake, enough that he grips the jug of wine so tightly that breaking it is an honest possibility. Calmly, efficiently, he lays out his options.

 

He has very, very few.

 

 _Why aren't you doing anything?_ he wants to scream at Drakon, wants to grab Sharrkan by the damned neck and _shake him_ , and for a scarce moment, tears of frustration prick into his eyes, lending him to suck in a slow, steadying breath to try and get better hold of himself. 

 

He has no other choice, really, at this point.

 

"Masrur was acting on my behalf." The jug of wine, miraculously, makes it to the table properly without being broken. "I gave the order. Punish me, not him."

 

"You aren't answering my question." Kouen is enjoying himself now, enjoying Ja'far's torment more even than watching the other generals avoid his eyes. "What punishment is fitting for someone like that? You are so well acquainted with the law, are you not?"

 

On his lap, the girl tries to elbow him between the legs. Kouen puts a stop to that with a hand around her throat. "Now, now, little mare, behave yourself. You're far too pretty to cover with bruises so soon."

 

Ja'far wants to kill him a dozen times more than he ever has before.

 

"Junah, please." It's a plea to the girl that he hopes doesn't sound too strained, and Ja'far hesitates, exhaling a long, even breath. "Acting alone, and such a person would most likely be imprisoned, possibly executed--but underneath the orders of another, it's different," he's quick to insist. "That person is far more responsible than their subordinates in every regard, and the brunt of the punishment should rest upon them."

 

The girl subsides, though she sits on Kouen's lap with ill grace, far too tense to make it comfortable for either of them, eyes locked frantically on Ja'far's as she slowly nods.

 

"That's better," Kouen breathes. His hand slides down from her neck, just to the top of her chest, not quite rude in company yet. "And the ringleader? What would you have done with him?"

 

Ja'far's eyes lid, though the only time he looks away from the girl is to spare a fleeting glance to Masrur. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry._ "Depending on the severity of the crimes and the reasoning behind it…" His expression twists wry. "Well, no, I can't say that. Sindria's executions are few and far between." 

 

He's going to regret this.

 

"But as you said… that is the _former_ system within Sindria. Wouldn't you be more inclined to tell me how the Kou Empire would punish someone like me _now_ \--" His throat is dry. The words might as well be sandpaper over his tongue. "--my Emperor?"

 

Ah. Good. Work smarter, not harder. Kouen moves his hand up to pet the girl’s hair--good behavior deserves a reward, after all. “I do hate having to resort to these crude tactics, you know,” he says conversationally, to the generals over his shoulder. His eyes don’t miss the tension in the Heliohapt man’s shoulders, and he narrows his eyes at that one until he sits down. “You’ll find I can be quite a beneficent ruler, if I am cooperated with.”

 

He turns to face Ja’far, expression smoothing out. “The criminal’s punishment would of course depend on how _sorry_ he is. And, by extension, how willing he is to _prove_ that.”

 

Kouen is nothing but predictable, in some matters.

 

It doesn't make Ja'far any less sick to his stomach, or make him feel any less like a dog that's being trained. Never mind that it is far less training and far more manipulating the other way around--letting Kouen know that and realize that would bring him right back to square one, and right now, Ja'far simply can't afford it.

 

"… My crimes against the Kou empire are rather numerous by now, my lord, though if it suits you, I would do my best to repent, for both myself and my man." _How many, if any, did you manage to get out, Masrur? Either way, thank you for trying._ "Ask anything of me, and I will gratefully comply." 

 

If nothing else, he knows he sounds _pretty_ , when he's pandering. 

 

“Anything?” Kouen arches an eyebrow. “Would you tell me the location of the twenty-odd children he managed to smuggle out of the city? He’s been remarkably closed-mouthed--and my men are quite good at opening closed mouths.”

 

"I don't know it," Ja'far bluntly answers. _I would lie._ "Honestly, I doubt he does either. My orders didn't provide him with a location, merely a request to have them taken from Sindria one way or another."

 

Kouen waves a hand. “No matter, no matter.” He tucks a strand of Junah’s hair behind her ear, smiling as she shivers. “I’ll just have to make the most of the ones he hadn’t yet gotten to.” He looks up, meeting Ja’far’s eyes. “Would you make her ready for my bed tonight?”

 

Ja'far wants to grab a knife, shove it into Kouen's throat, and twist until he bleeds out so quickly on the floor that even Judal couldn't save him.

 

_No. Do that now, and he'll never believe a thing out of your mouth again. Better, for him to think he has you by the balls now._

 

It's easy to forget he has other allies still, but he _does_ , and Ja'far merely holds Kouen's gaze impassively. "If that is what my lord asked of me." _Junah, please have half the sense of your father right now._ An unfortunate thing, that most of Sinbad's children don't.

 

Kouen doesn’t hear it, but he feels it when the girl starts crying silently, a hot tear splashing down over his hand. Pathetic, really, Hardly worth the conquering, though she’s lovely enough, Sinbad’s enough, to make it worth the effort. Then again…

 

“Unless perhaps you could think of another way to amuse me tonight.” _Yes, in front of your friends. Let go of the last of your pride, I want to see it fade._

 

Either way, Ja'far won't see Kouen's hands on the girl-- _any_ of Sinbad's girls--another moment. Either way, he'll find a moment with the maids to somehow get her and any of her sisters out of the palace, he'll try to give her enough courage to round up anyone who is left, he'll try to get them out of the country _tonight_. 

 

He can't do that if he's in a dungeon cell again, laughing at a guard's attempt to drown him in a bucket. 

 

It's hardly a card Ja'far wants to play--hardly one he feels any breadth of skill at playing, but he'll manage. "Sinbad had two favorites, really." Ja'far's head tilts. "Shall I have the honor of showing you why he never shared me?" 

 

Kouen’s breath catches. He’d known it, he’d _known_ there was no way a man built like that could be any better than a whore, _known_ that only a king would be fit to rut up between those curved legs, and his throat is dry as he swallows. “As you wish,” he responds, breath a little too fast, belying his eagerness. “Heliohapt,” he barks, and the white-haired man starts from where he’d been staring at Ja’far. “The king’s _favorite_ is injured. Help him to my chambers. And _you_ ,” he adds, giving the girl a pinch, “go help _him_ be ready for my bed tonight.”

 

Best he excuse himself, before the excitement becomes apparent. As soon as the trio are out of the room, he leaves himself. There are things to attend to before he can _enjoy_.

 

Once out of the dining hall, Sharrkan lifts Ja’far off his injured leg completely, muttering quietly, “ _Why_ are you _provoking_ him?”

 

Ja'far has few qualms about punching him.

 

Hopefully, he didn't break the man's nose--no, never mind, he hopes he _did_. That would teach him a thing or two. "Pick me up again and I'll string you up by that chain around your neck--why _aren't_ you provoking him, you worthless little brat? Your country has had Kou at its throat long enough, you _know_ how this will end if we don't deal with them early on!" Ja'far hisses through his teeth, twisting back in hopes of getting a last glimpse into the dining hall at Masrur before the doors shut, but it's too late. _Damn it all._  

 

Sucking in a deep breath, he grabs for Junah, giving her shoulders a firm squeeze. "You _know_ I would never let anything happen to you," he quietly tells her. "Not you, or any of you siblings. But I can't do any of this without your help, and I need you to be brave, just like your father, all right?" 

 

Sharrkan groans, bending over to snort blood out onto the ground, clutching at his face. Even when Ja’far’s traumatized and upset like Drakon had warned--screw that, now _Sharrkan’s_ the one traumatized!--he still packs a hell of a wallop. “Not _here_ ,” he grunts, eyes watering with the pain. “Come _on_ , I have to tell you something and I don’t know who might be listening!”

 

Junah clings to Ja’far’s sleeve, nodding after wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry for being weak,” she says softly, urging him along. “Masrur told me to be brave, but I got scared, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again.”

 

To hell with his leg _aching_ with the added weight--god, he really is no healer--Ja'far scoops her up all the same, trying not to glare a hole into Sharrkan's back. "You were brave," he reassures her. "Just keep it up a little while longer, all right? Also," he adds, voice suddenly flat as he addresses Sharrkan, " _you_ are still an unobservant git, do you think I would run my mouth so readily? Pay attention to your surroundings, Kouen _oft_ lets me be alone."

 

Sharrkan cringes. He deserves the insults, knows he does, but if only Ja’far would _understand_ …

 

Ah, well. He will soon enough.

 

Kouen’s chambers are of _course_ Sinbad’s chambers, the walk not too long from the dining hall. Sinbad had often joked that he moved them closer together because he kept losing his way when drunk, and Sharrkan believed it. He shuts the door behind them, then starts checking the chambers for any lingering servants, any curious eyes and ears. “Can you check for magic listening spells?”

 

Ja'far is becoming increasingly impatient. Using what spare bit of magoi he has for something like this--ugh. _This better be wonderful news_ , he wants to snap as he sets the girl on her feet again, eyes sharp, lit from within as he spares a glance about the room. "Clear," is his clipped response. Being in Sinbad's chambers makes him _think_. Ja'far isn't so fond of that right now. "Speak." 

 

Sharrkan darts another look around before speaking, the paranoia Drakon had drilled into him a hard thing to let go of. 

 

“We think Sinbad is alive.”

 

~~

 

Judal has a _few_ good memories within Kou. He'd be lying to say he had never been less than pampered and catered to, and upon arriving at the main palace of the Kou Empire, he remembers that very, very clearly. 

 

What he doesn't remember is the place being so very… _empty_. 

 

There are servants milling about. That's easy enough to see from their carpet vantage point, but there's nowhere near the congregations he remembers, or even the Al-Sarmen members, leering over the royals like they were fresh meat.

 

They might as well have been. 

 

It isn't until Judal notices how empty the _barracks_ are as well that he starts to worry. Would he be at the other palace? No, not this time of the year. It's too cold there, and any native of Kou would vastly prefer this humid mess. 

 

"… I don't think he's here."

 

Aladdin blinks. Of all the things he’d expected Judal to say, that wasn’t even on the _list_. He’d expected nervousness, second thoughts, maybe excitement or anger or sadness, but not _this_.

 

“Um...really? Where else would he be?”

 

"If I knew that, don't you think I would have insisted we go there in the first place?" Judal snaps, anxiety quickly rising. He's made a mistake. Kouen's probably off campaigning somewhere. The man never _did_ want to sit still, and that was one thing that was fun about him. "I…" _Maybe we should kill Hakuei. Or Kougyoku, while we're here._

 

It's the last thing he wants to do, honestly.

 

Aladdin peers over the edge of the carpet, and his eyes light up. “There are a lot of pretty girls down there! We should...ask them where everyone is! Yeah!”

 

"Hakuei is probably the one in charge right now, if he isn't here." Judal's gaze slides sideways. "Do you want to fight her?"

 

Aladdin hesitates. “Um...I liked her a lot,” he admits. “Maybe she’d talk to me? I don’t want to hurt her, if I can help it, but if she’s trying to hurt everyone…”

 

"I thought she liked _me_ a lot," is Judal's flat retort. "And yet she was no quicker than any of the rest of them to ask me to stay."

 

Aladdin firms his jaw. He’s known for a while now that people can change, can change a _lot_ , and sometimes not for the better. If Judal could change from a bloodthirsty brat into _this_ Judal, there’s no telling what Hakuei could have changed into. “Then let’s find her and find out. And if she doesn’t want to talk…” He shrugs. “We’ll figure something out.”

 

"… Fine." Never mind, that his anxiety is reaching a peak. _I don't want to be here, I don't want to stay here, something's_ wrong _._

 

Judal pushes it aside all the same, never mind how it makes his head hurt. Hakuei _should_ be easy to find--Paimon was his dungeon after all, and simply opening himself to the rush of that power, looking about for any and all dungeon capturers… yes, that pinpoints her quickly enough, within her own, private chambers (at this time of day? maybe he's wrong, maybe someone else is in charge).

 

He's relieved, at least, to be right about Kouen not being here. 

 

The carpet dips low, and there's no real elegant way to let himself into Hakuei's room. Avoiding a dozen guards is the smartest thing, and so they do it by being a little too fast, tumbling onto her terrace in short order and--ah, that's a blade at his throat, and one at Aladdin's, too.

 

"Seishun," Judal manages with a smile. "Hi." Uhh, that was being peaceful, right?

 

"Seishun? What is it?"

 

"Please stay back, my lady." There's no small degree of _panic_ on his face, and Judal blinks, twisting his head to get a look at Hakuei before she pushes back the curtains to step outside.

 

Oh. 

 

Well.

 

Aladdin’s eyes widen a lot more at the sight of Hakuei than at the knife at his throat, even if he doesn’t exactly _move_. “Wow,” he exclaims, eyes sweeping up and down (and side to side) over her form. “Wow, wow, you got really--your boobs look _huge_!”

 

"Aladdin!" Judal hisses, swallowing hard when Seishun's sword presses harder against his throat. He should probably draw his wand right about now.

 

Hakuei blinks, staring at the two of them mostly in disbelief. "… Aladdin?" she echoes, frowning, and her gaze flickers to Judal shortly afterwards. She takes another step closer, much to Seishun's rapidly growing anxiety, and that makes it all the more _obvious_. 

 

She's going to have that kid any _day_ now. 

 

"And Judal," she finally, softly addresses, and it's with a hand upon Seishun's shoulder that the man slowly, very reluctantly, sinks back, withdrawing his blades. "It has been some time." 

 

Aladdin tries to remember about asking and about danger and about swords, but it’s really difficult when Hakuei looks so much softer and curvier and _bigger_ than last time, pretty and plump like a ripe fruit he sort of wants to hug and suck on, and he has to dig his fingernails into his hand, shifting where he stands a few times to even manage to close his mouth. “I mean...uh...hi! You look--” 

 

No, better stay away from the topic of looks. Too enticing.

 

“Ah, you seem to be in charge of the Empire. So...that’s nice, right?”

 

"… While my cousin is away, yes," she allows, a sideways look cast to Judal. _She knows_ , Judal thinks, _as well as I do, that there's no use in hiding it from us that Kouen isn't here_. Still, she doesn't seem all that concerned, and Hakuei heaves a long sigh, crooking a finger at the younger Magi. "Go on. You won't stop looking at them until you do."

 

Judal supposes that's as good of a peace offering as anything, and he relaxes, heaving a long, weary sigh.

 

Hakuei isn’t just as pretty as Aladdin remembers, she’s as nice and as wonderful too, Aladdin thinks gleefully. It’s a little more difficult now with their respective heights, but he’s figured out a million ways around that, burying his face and hands happily in her chest. He tries to avoid the nipples; from the look of her, she’s got to be close to starting her milk, and no woman likes doing that in a fancy dress. 

 

That desire assuaged, Aladdin at least has the grace to look abashed, slinking back with a rueful grin. “Ah, thanks. Sorry. Old habits. But it really is good to see, uh, _all_ of you!”

 

"It is good to see you, too--though quite unexpected," she wryly offers, smoothing her clothing after the fact, and giving her very, _very_ stressed looking attendant a pat on the shoulder. "Seishun, if you would go and prepare some tea--"

 

"But my _lady_ \--"

 

"Seishun."

 

Judal finds a last, lingering stare mostly fixated upon _him_ , and Hakuei's gaze quickly follows, silently appraising. "My, but you've become lovely. And quiet."

 

He blinks, flushing a little at the words. "I just--the last time we spoke--"

 

"I had no say in that decision." 

 

Judal bites his tongue--ah, she _is_ right. He has become much quieter, hasn't he. Even still, they aren't here to talk about how she and Kougyoku sat on their hands while Kouen cast him aside--no matter how it still _stings._  

 

"So," Hakuei continues, turning to drift her way back into her chambers, and promptly take a seat with a relieved exhale to follow shortly afterwards, "what brings you to our palace today? It isn't often, that two Magi would be traveling together away from their kings."

 

After plopping himself down, Aladdin reaches over to give Judal’s hand a squeeze. A bit of the rukh flutters between them, as reassuring as the pressure of his hand, and Aladdin turns a smile on Hakuei. “We came looking for Kouen,” he says honestly. Really, what’s the point in lying? She’s probably not going to tell them where he is in any case, and the two of them together are going to be pretty hard to beat or capture. “And since he’s not here, we came to see who _is_ making war on our kings.”

 

Hakuei's eyebrows raise, and she offers Seishun a smile as he brings over the tea, still looking less than thrilled about the current arrangement. "I can assure you that I have declared no wars," she says, taking a slow sip from her own cup. "En, however, has other motivations. Seeing as he is emperor, I have little right to oppose him." 

 

"Do you even want to?"

 

Hakuei's gaze is a bit sharper, then, as she looks to Judal. "War has never been my prerogative. But--"

 

"That prerogative is starving our countries. Since when have you settled so contently underneath his thumb?" It's hard _not_ to sound increasingly annoyed, with how his voice shakes. 

 

"… It isn't so simple, Judal."

 

“I’d like it to be.” 

 

Aladdin swirls the tea in his cup, looking down at it. “It would be nice if it could be so simple as the people in charge saying they didn’t want to fight anymore,” he says, a little wistfully. “Then maybe people who didn’t have anything to do with it wouldn’t have to die.”

 

He takes a sip of tea, leaning back a little. “And maybe people like me and Judal wouldn’t have to _end_ those wars.”

 

Hakuei smiles slowly. "Is that a threat?" 

 

"If you are as loyal to him as everything implies," Judal answers for Aladdin, eyes shining as he _looks_ at her. "You're sleeping with him."

 

"I--"

 

"It's a girl, by the way."

 

Hakuei's lips purse, and she sets down her teacup. "What do you want from me?" she bluntly asks. "En is… not the same man that he was ten years ago. That organization's hold upon him is far greater than mine ever was."

 

“I want you to stop this war.” 

 

Aladdin doesn’t mince words, hardly ever. It’s not anything he’s good at in any case. Ja’far is good at that, and Alibaba a lot of the time, but Aladdin has no patience for it. “I want you to try as hard as you can to stop the fighting. I want you to do what you think is right.”

 

He takes another sip of his tea. “That’s what I want from everyone.” _And you’d be surprised how often I get it._

 

Hakuei can't stop the soft laugh that follows. "If it were _that_ simple, I would have done it eons ago. I have already tried. I helped push my own mother from the throne, thinking that was for the best. Now, it is in my best interests to simply wait." 

 

Aladdin blinks at her. “Wait for what?”

 

"Any opportunity that I can."

 

"Kouen isn't going to give you one," Judal lowly points out.

 

Hakuei shrugs. "He gives me more than you would think."

 

"More than he ever did me, you mean." 

 

"You aren't a woman."

 

 _So I am constantly reminded,_ Judal dryly thinks. It almost seems _easier_ if he were one, nowadays.

 

“If he gives you opportunities,” Aladdin points out, “why haven’t you taken them?” He looks down at her belly, the gravity of the situation such that he doesn’t even let his eyes wander. “Do you love him?”

 

Hakuei tilts her head to the side, thoughtful. "He's a rather impossible man to love," she finally says, looking back. "I am sure you think I have done nothing but sit here and warm his bed, but it is my hand that has stayed him until now." 

 

Judal snorts. " _This_ is your version of _staying?_ "

 

The stare she fixes upon him is less than kind. "Perhaps you have forgotten how difficult it is to negotiate with Al-Sarmen. I am but one woman; I have done what I can, and will continue doing so. As long as En remains alive, however, he is the Emperor of the Kou Empire, and his decisions are final. All I can do is continue to advise him, and pray he listens."

 

"If it's your child that you're worried about, Sindria would--"

 

"I have never _not_ been capable on my own, and now is no exception." Hakuei's eyes lid. "If you are so concerned, form an alliance with us. Work with the Kou Empire, rather than against its hand."

 

"No." Judal has no issue speaking on Sinbad's behalf when it comes to _that_ decision. 

 

“What advice do you give him?” Aladdin asks, drawing his knees up to his chest. This isn’t quite the Hakuei he remembers, the one who’d stood alone and mostly powerless against two armies and carved peace out of the situation with her bare hands. This one…

 

This one just seems like a woman, tired and sad, and not like the warrior goddess of his memory. 

 

“Do you tell him to be gentle in his conquests? Or not to make them? Or to choose the right ones?”

 

"I have told him a dozen things, Aladdin, many of which you have just said. Sometimes, it's easier to guide--or even force--his hand than others. Regarding Balbadd… Kou has as little of a desire to see such a great port city go to waste as you. And regarding Sindria…" Her expression turns wry. "There, he will not hear me at all. There are far too many grudges involved."

 

Aladdin sighs out a breath, tipping sideways to lean onto Judal’s shoulder. “What do you want to do, then?” he asks, looking up at the other Magi. “Go looking for him, or do something here? Obviously no one is going to help us.”

 

"Probably," Judal says slowly, "we should kill her." 

 

Seishun moves immediately, and Judal sighs, wand pointed at him before he can get his neck cut up any more. "I didn't say we were _going_ to. Hey, where's Kougyoku?" 

 

Hakuei's smile is decidedly more tight-lipped. "In Laem."

 

"… _Why?_ "

 

"She married the First Magician there, to forge a peace treaty." 

 

Judal tries not to be annoyed that he didn't know about this. "Maybe we should talk to her first, Aladdin." Scheherazade is _difficult_ , but at least she's another Magi. Maybe, _maybe_ she will be on their side. 

 

Aladdin’s eyes go wide. “The First Magician? Of Laem? Really, Kougyoku did?” Ah, he’s on the verge of bouncing up and down asking _can we can we can we,_ and besides, it certainly sounds better than threatening Hakuei.

 

"What, you know him or something?" Judal grumbles, giving Aladdin a push off of his shoulder when he all but starts drooling in his excitement. "Okay, fine, we'll go there next. You," he adds, wand pointed in Hakuei's direction (as Seishun has a small heart attack), "have that kid already, and we'll be _back_."

 

"Come for the wedding," Hakuei blithely replies. "It should be a grand affair."

 

Judal tries not to shudder. 

 

~~

 

A slow breath in.

 

A cough.

 

A slow breath in.

 

A slow breath out.

 

Good.

 

It takes a long, long time for the dust to clear. By the time it does, there’s little to nothing around, nothing but sand, and heat, and an oddly disconcerting lack of pain. He’s _sure_ there should be pain--there always has been before, as long as he can remember waking up after anything that felt even a little like that explosion.

 

With memory of pain comes memory of everything else: Kouen’s magic, the equip, the throne room shattering to pieces, Ja’far’s wires reaching out to him--

 

Ah, Ja’far. He has to get up, if only for Ja’far.

 

First things first. Sinbad reaches out to pat himself down, only to stop short. 

 

He’s _sure_ he used to have arms.

 

Well. This could be inconvenient.

 

"Oh! You're awake!"

 

Alibaba's voice is less than steady--more like a shaky mess, when it comes right down to it, and no matter how he tries to steel his expression, it still comes out _stressed_. "Umm… you've been asleep for awhile. How are you feeling?" 

 

Does he have a voice? He has _breath_ , Sinbad supposes he probably has a voice, though at this point it seems foolish to count anything as certain. He tries to breathe, coughs, and tries again. “Ali...baba. I...what…” 

 

It’s a terrifying question to ask, but he’s at least _alive_. Everything else can be dealt with, so he braces for information he doesn’t want to hear. “What happened to me?”

 

"Well," Alibaba slowly begins, "that's sort of a good question. Because you were sort of a lizard, and when Kouen sort of exploded _everything_ , I _think_ your arms and legs got exploded too, and so, uh… well… I mean, they're growing back, so I guess it'll be fine. I think you just need to restore your magoi a bit… maybe."

 

Ah. Not as bad as he’d thought. In fact, Sinbad has to laugh. “Ahh, so that’s what that one does under duress. Funny, I’d always thought it was a bit useless compared to the others, but when you’re rushed…”

 

He tries to raise his head with marginal success. “Prop me up, would you? Where are we? Where’s everyone?”

 

That's the part Alibaba is more worried about, actually. He winces with the thought as he moves to help Sinbad sit up, reaching for a cup of water to hold it to Sinbad's lips. "Not Balbadd City," he admits with a grimace. "It wasn't safe to stay there any longer. I managed to get us out in all of the chaos, you know, while everything was blowing up--this is one of Balbadd's outer islands. There's, ah… not much here, that the Kou Empire would want." _Desert_ islands, really, but what choice did he have?

 

Sinbad stares at the young man. Had he actually done something not just smart, but useful? He reaches--

 

Ah, no.

 

That’s going to be _hell_ to get used to. 

 

“How long have I been unconscious?” he asks, eyeing the pink, bloodless, sort of _twitchy_ skin where his arms should be. “How fast are they growing back? Where is Ja’far?”

 

"… About a week?" Alibaba sits back, heaving a long sigh. "They've been going faster, for the past couple of days. Um…" He looks aside. "I don't know where Ja'far is. I couldn't find him, in the midst of everything. I tried to go back, once, to see if I could, but the palace is swarming with the Kou military."

 

Sinbad wants to wave a hand at that. “He can take care of himself. Better that we stay alive, and can be of some use to him when we, well, _I_ , get back on my feet.” 

 

He glares down at himself, willing the magoi to work faster, and feels his reserves flickering dangerously low. “Have we got food?”

 

"Ah, yeah, I went out earlier." Alibaba rises, fetching the bread in question. Not much, but considering the state of Balbadd… he bites his lip, shoving the thoughts of _guilt_ from his mind. It isn't useful now or ever. "The other day," he adds, breaking off a piece from the loaf and holding it to Sinbad's lips, "a big Kou caravan left. Maybe Kouen is gone by now."

 

“Great, I’ll chase him down,” Sinbad mutters, and takes a big bite out of the bread nonetheless. His blood tingles with the surge of magoi, but not, he thinks, as much as it _should_.

 

Ah. Oh dear. 

 

He swallows, then asks casually, “This wouldn’t happen to be one of those islands that occasionally shifts positions, would it?”

 

"… Most of Balbadd's islands do," Alibaba warily replies, his head tilting to the side. "Why?" 

 

Sinbad lays his head back, eyes closing. “You didn’t have much time with your father, did you? Ah, no matter. This isn’t an _island_ , Alibaba. It’s a slow-moving creature.” No wonder his skin feels like it’s trying to crawl off of him. “They eat magoi.”

 

"Oh." 

 

Well. That would explain a few things. 

 

"Well--the next time it gets close to a land bridge, we can… get off? The, uh, last ship for the week left yesterday, so…"

 

Sinbad would gladly trade half his remaining organs to have Ja’far at his side over Alibaba. Still, he’s not exactly in a position to negotiate with fate--or anyone and anything, really--so all he can do is wait. “Swim. With me on your back. It’s that or wait a week bringing me food every hour.”

 

Alibaba clears his throat. "I'm… not the strongest swimmer, actually." 

 

Sinbad stares at him. _The next time you get fat, I’m tossing you in the ocean and not letting you leave until you’re a fish’s meal or you’re thin._ “You are today,” he says instead aloud. “If I can keep hold of you with my teeth the whole way, you don’t get to complain.”

 

"… That sounds really… uh, no, seriously, I nearly drowned once, in the port. I mean, okay, it was pretty deep, and one of my friends was definitely holding my head under water, but still--"

 

There have been few moments in Sinbad’s life so dark as looking at Alibaba Saluja and realizing that therein lay his only chance to make it through the day alive. He takes a deep breath, and nods slowly. “All right. Then I’ll need quite a bit more food.”

 

"Oh, I can do that much!" Alibaba jumps to his feet, relieved there's at least _one_ task he can accomplished. "Ah--I forgot," he adds, picking up something from the pile of his bags. "I only found one of these, when I managed to snatch up your other metal vessels," he apologizes, holding up a single brass earring. "Do you still want it? I think they're just brass, anyway…" 

 

Sinbad moves to snatch the earring up, only to...stop. He exhales slowly through his nose. At least he can still _breathe_ he reminds himself. By all rights, he should probably be dead. “Yes,” he says instead. “I want it very much. Put it in my ear.” Damn, he’ll have to comb Balbadd from top to bottom looking for the other one.

 

Alibaba gives a little shrug, kneeling down to do as he's told. "There--now, just give me a bit, and I'll be back with more food." _Hopefully_. Ah, no, he can't screw this part up, he _can't._

 

Sinbad cracks an eye open. “Where exactly are you getting food from? I’ll need as much as I can if I’m to restore enough magoi to get off this stupid turtle or whatever.”

 

"There's actually a village here! I wonder if they knew it was a turtle thing," Alibaba muses, tilting his head to the side. "Ah, anyway, they were pretty generous before."

 

Just one week, Sinbad reminds himself. In a week, he _thinks_ , Alibaba had hinted there will be boats. Then he’ll be able to get off of this stupid floating hunk of junk, and onto proper land. 

 

 _Ja’far won’t be able to feel me without my magoi_ , he realizes, and curses to himself again. This is nothing he needs. “Will these people possibly lend you a rowboat? You know that this is important, yes?”

 

"Of course I know it's important! I… well, it can't hurt to _ask_ , at any rate," Alibaba sighs, raking a hand back through his bangs. "I'll see what I can come up with. Don't go anywh…well, not that you can, I mean… I'm just gonna go now." 

 

Sinbad manages a tiny smile. Yes, well done, he hasn’t quite murdered the boy with just his eyes yet. “I’ll try not to run off.”

 


	21. Chapter 21

 

_We think Sinbad is alive._

 

That alone is enough to make Ja'far straighten his back, enough to make him hold his head high when the door to Kouen's--no, _Sinbad's_ chambers open. It isn't Kouen, though, and his legs nearly buckle from the relief of seeing one of the palace maids, passing on the word that Kouen is no longer in need of him, and he can go.

 

Oh, and take the girl, too.

 

Ja'far does more than take Junah. He pushes her off to the maid in question, promises of gold on his lips, though she simply waves it all off, gathering Junah into her skirts and hurrying along with her. He isn't sure what he owes all of this good fortune to, but he isn't one to _complain_ about it--not when later that evening he also learns of  Masrur's imprisonment rather than execution, and it nearly saps all of the energy from his veins from sheer _relief_. 

 

God, he needs to do something about his leg, though. And his back that still aches and bleeds, if he moves too fast.

 

He also needs a more reliable informant--or a dozen of them, really. Gossiping servants aren't helpful, especially in these circumstances, and he hears a dozen strange things about what sort of news could have changed Kouen's mood around so _quickly_. Ja'far minds himself, though; he stays silent, and it's safer that way for a few days, because Kouen doesn't even bother to call on him.

 

It gives him time to finish Masrur's task, at least, and that, too, is an infinite weight off of his shoulders.

 

He's still too angry, too _proud_ to corner Yamuraiha and insist on her healing him. Perhaps it's better to wait anyway, to win Kouen's favor further and see if he himself will command it. It's definitely better, at this point, to play nice, to _accept_ the idea of finery and standing beside Kouen's throne, because if Sinbad is alive, then there is little better place to be, if he needs to strike and kill. 

 

Now if only he could find his vessel. 

 

Ja'far knows better than to bring it up, knows better than to ask, especially when Kouen is so damnably fixated and secretive about whatever correspondence he's received from Kou, and so Ja'far is surprised when _he_ is the one to retrieve the next wax-sealed scroll from his messengers. Hmm. Not easy to open without being noticed, unfortunately. Perhaps, if it brings it to Kouen and _lingers_ …

 

It's the tactic Ja'far ends up with, though not without a knock upon his chambers' door, and following that, a deferent bow of his head as he steps inside. He'll play this game, if he must, and his own spirits are high enough that bowing his head seems like nothing in the face of a dozen possibilities.

 

(… How do advisors pander to their kings, exactly, though? He's never done it. He wouldn't know.)

 

“Enter.” 

 

Kouen spares the briefest of glances at the door when it opens, mostly to check for another assassin, and is mildly surprised to _see_ one in the doorway. He frowns, irritable at the sight, and turns back to his maps. “I thought I said I didn’t require your services tonight.”

 

"My apologies, my lord." Ja'far lifts his head as he shuts the door behind himself, extending a hand with the scroll within it. "Another messenger came for you." 

 

Kouen moves so quickly he knocks over the desk, grabbing the scroll from Ja’far’s hand, then irritably righting the desk again. He slits the seal with a finger, impressed that it hasn’t yet been broken (apparently Hakuei’s man is as trustworthy as she’s always said, he owes her a forfeit for that). His eyes scan the scroll, face darkening as he reads the words _Magi_ and _visit_ and _in our home._

 

_Come home._

 

He lets himself read it one final time before putting it to the flame, easing himself back into the chair, a faraway look on his face. _If only I could._

 

Ja'far knows _nothing_ of how to pander and flatter a king--or emperor, as it may be. It's probably best, with that in mind, to not try and fake it.

 

What he _does_ know, however, is how to observe and advise, and Kouen has been nothing but easy for him to read since day one. 

 

 _Pretend, for a moment, that he really_ is _your king._

 

Nauseous already, just with the thought. "Is there something wrong, my lord?" Ja'far mildly inquires, kneeling carefully, never mind the buckling of his leg, to scoop up a few papers that had fluttered to the floor.

 

Vaguely, Kouen supposes he should be grateful that Ja’far seems to have accepted his place. He isn’t. If anything, it bothers him. “See a damn healer about that leg already,” he mutters, frowning. 

 

He hesitates for a second, then asks, “How long until Sindria becomes a fully functional colony, do you think?”

 

Ah. That was a lot easier than he thought it would be. 

 

Ja'far carefully straightens with a clink of his chains, straightening the loose papers within his grasp as if actually thinking such a ridiculous question over. "Sindria's people are very loyal to their previous king," he says, eyes lidded. "To be honest, I am surprised more at their lack of uprising, as of yet. You should expect it."

 

“Perhaps they have more of an instinct for self-preservation than you believe,” Kouen counters. “It is natural to want to protect their homes and their young, isn’t it? You shouldn’t blame them for such a thing.”

 

Ja'far's lips slowly curve. "I didn't say I blamed them, my lord; merely that I was surprised, considering their normal outlook. Then again, I am sure word has spread regarding a number of things, and made them wary." 

 

“Mm.” Kouen stares at the ash left over from the burned scroll, and the one he’d burned earlier, fixing it in his memory so fast he needs no physical reminder. One sentence, no more: _A girl, and healthy._

 

“I have been hasty, in Sindria,” he admits, eyes still not focused on Ja’far. “Inclusion into the Kou Empire is occasionally difficult, but frequently met with much enthusiasm. I allowed my hatred for its king to blind me.”

 

"Sinbad had many enemies, and you, without a doubt, were his greatest one." Ja'far's gaze flickers down, wondering how difficult it would be for Yamuraiha to reconstruct whatever that burnt message was. He sets the papers back upon the desk, idly reaching for a scroll to wind it properly tight. "That doesn't mean such a thing is impossible to overcome. Though… _forcing_ loyalty upon those who are so very loyal to begin with is often met with ill results, as you have seen. Those in Sindria do not respond well to fear." 

 

Any other day, Kouen would likely be annoyed, or ignore the man. Just today, he waves a hand. “Go on, then. What’s to be done? You know Sindria better than anyone alive.”

 

"As I said previously--if you attempt to change everything within Sindria immediately to Kou's policies, you'll be met with nothing but resistance. Gradually, is your best bet." _To give me enough time._ "Be it taxation, trade embargoes, government labor--all else. Trying to starve Sindria's people from what they _know_ is a dozen times worse than _literally_ starving them. Keep your military occupying the streets to insure order, if you must, though imprisoning and enslaving its generals already has you a decent amount of control through wariness alone."

 

The face Kouen makes says clearer than any words that the idea has been _rejected_. “How amicable do you think the people would be--the _people_ , mind you, not the generals--to voluntarily accepting the Kou Empire and becoming a territory, rather than a hostile colony? In exchange for easier taxes, more food at cheaper prices, protection on trade routes, the like.” He can always have the loudest dissenters executed, after all, and a territory doesn’t need _his_ governance.

 

Ah, well. Not even Sinbad listened to every word out of his mouth. "Would you have me negotiate with them to reach such a point?" 

 

Kouen’s eyes sharpen, focused on Ja’far. “What has made you so suddenly _helpful_? I still have the marks of your teeth on my hand.”

 

Ja'far merely _looks_ at him. "Where shall I start? The pain in my leg, my only ally in your dungeons, or the needless threats towards a dozen children? Forgive me, if I seem abrupt, _my lord_ , but I have come to the conclusion that needless suffering for _my_ people is a little beyond me."

 

Hakuei’s letter is making him _irritable_ , and Kouen finds his patience with Ja’far’s wit rapidly evaporating. “Fine, fine. Go see a healer before I change my mind. I have much work to do tonight.”

 

_You are clearly missing the offer I have given to assist you. Shall I repeat it in simpler terms?_

 

No, turn that down about four notches. Or five.

 

This man is not Sinbad. He doesn't find it _amusing_.

 

"I would assist you, should you allow it. I am not so talented at being idle."

 

“Nor, it seems, at taking orders. Still…” Kouen eyes a corner, stacked to the brim with papers and scrolls and books. “Make some sense of that nonsense. Ah, and tell me how your king kept his Magi so well-behaved while you’re working.”

 

Ja'far ducks his head, trying _terribly_ not to laugh. "I assure you, my lord, I will follow your order to see a healer in the near future." _For now, though, making myself comfortable here and chipping away at what I can will suffice._

 

There _is_ something soothing about paperwork, at least, and Ja'far has sorely missed it. Sinbad always commented on how it took the sharp edge from his tongue, for Ja'far to have a long, _successful_ day at a desk, and hopefully, that will apply here and now as well. The sudden question about _Magi_ , however, is troubling, though Ja'far dares not let that concern flicker over his face. "Sinbad let him get away with everything. Judal's good behavior can be attributed to my hand, thank you." 

 

Kouen’s frown turns contemplative, and he nods slowly, eyes going back to the map. “If he were to arrive, could you control him? Make him do your bidding? He was always willful when he was with us.”

 

 _Oh, god, Judal, please don't come here right now._ "A Magi can only be controlled if they wish to be," Ja'far answers carefully, thumbing his way through several dozen old tax records. "Judal is… easier than most, and may be decently mindful of me, in Sinbad's absence." You _would have a far easier time tearing him down at this point, and you don't even realize it._ "Do you intend to make him choose you?" 

 

Kouen snorts. “I have no need for an expensive healer, especially not that brat. I was _hoping_ he’d died along with his king, but apparently someone sent him to make trouble in my homeland, in my absence. Tell me, Ja’far...who would be able to order him to do such a thing?”

 

 _Damn it, Judal. Even when you aren't here, you make my life difficult_. "His own loyalty towards Sinbad, perhaps?" He can't help but sound a bit annoyed by the insinuation. "He can be startlingly autonomous, when he wants to be." 

 

“And you would have no idea what he would have to do in my homeland, hm?” Kouen considers pressing the point, then disregards it. The child had been born, and healthy, so _that_ at least had not been Judal’s aim. And really, if they’d left Hakuei able to send the letter, they’d hardly been acting on anyone’s _orders_.

 

Still.

 

Someone knows now, someone unfriendly to the Empire, to his family, and that is what he’s tried to avoid at all costs. Mentally, he formulates a design for the tower Hakuei and their daughter will be confined to, just until he can come home. “Tell me. With the reestablishment of trade routes, how long until Sindria’s economy is fully functional again?”

 

_He probably went there to kill you, after slaughtering your brothers._

 

Ja'far contemplatively unfurls a scroll over his lap. "Are you going to allow me to negotiate with Sindria's people to _accept_ your economical policies? Whether you like it or not, my lord, it will make a great difference."

 

Kouen waves an irritable hand. “Fine, fine, do what you will. Whatever will hasten this process along.”

 

It's a leap of faith, but--"With all due respect, I doubt they will be reassured if I am still in chains."

 

Kouen raises an eyebrow. “You must be joking. You’ve done less than nothing to convince me of your loyalty. Any time I’ve given you the slightest bit of leeway you’ve killed my men and had ex-partae communication with your spies.”

 

Ja'far shrugs. "Then the best estimate I can give you is around six to eight months." 

 

Kouen eyes him suspiciously. “And if I do have your chains struck off?”

 

"A month, at most."

 

_You must desperately want to go home. What's gone wrong, I wonder?_

 

"You have said it yourself before." Ja'far's gaze flickers back to the scroll in his lap. "I hardly have a usable metal vessel. The other generals won't as much meet my eye, and you have imprisoned the only one that I could still call an ally. What, exactly, do you think I will do?" 

 

 _Or perhaps, it is more of what has gone_ right. 

 

Kouen wants this.

 

He wants to go _home_ , something he’s rarely wanted in his life, and even if he’s only there for a pair of minutes, he _needs_ to see that child with his own eyes, the only one he’s ever been able to sire (thanks, no doubt, to Paimon’s influence on Hakuei). And if it’s longer than a pair of minutes, he can do as he’s promised since they’d discovered the child, and take her properly to wife.

 

Needs must.

 

“Then prove your loyalty.” It’s nothing he savors the thought of now, not now that his mind is elsewhere, but it’s an effective task nonetheless. “Right now.”

 

Ja'far lifts his head, blinking at the request. "… And how would you have me do that, my lord?" 

 

Tiresome. Still, Ja’far is pretty enough, now that he’s looking for it. “How else, to an Emperor?” His eyes narrow, and he pushes back his chair. “On your knees, of course.”

 

Oh.

 

He thought they were past this.

 

 _How else to an Emperor_ \--Ja'far can think of a dozen ways, _none_ of which involve him on his knees, or in this man's bed. _I'm an advisor, a general, an assassin, not a whore at your beck and call._

 

Sinbad would never _deign_ to suggest this.

 

Oh, but that thought makes him angry. It almost makes him ruin everything by spitting out a sharp refusal, that he'll keep the damned chains and wear them proudly. But he _needs_ that mobility, needs his magoi fully and completely at his disposal and not turned _against him_ to bind him, and he needs Kouen's favor most of all, to accomplish anything.

 

Nothing else has _worked_ , after all.

 

Ja'far swallows slowly, rolling the scroll within his lap up before he stands. "As my Emperor commands." _Better me, than one of Sinbad's girls._ Sliding to his knees hurts more this time, with his heart thudding up into his throat, and he wills the shake from his hand as he reaches for the ties of Kouen's robes. _Better me, than Yamuraiha or Pisti._  

 

Ah, Ja’far is _eager_. 

 

Kouen watches through lidded eyes, arms resting on the arms of the chair, enjoying the way Ja’far looks down there even if he _is_ no woman. There’s certainly a sort of beauty there, an odd, ethereal one that makes this something more than a chore, something more enjoyable than having the man prove his loyalty through _paperwork_ or something.

 

What’s important is that Ja’far realize how _powerless_ he is.

 

 _Any freedom you have is by my pleasure_ , Kouen thinks, widening his stance to let Ja’far between his legs. _Pay me for it in demeaning yourself._

 

“So this is the view Sinbad had. No wonder he rarely left Sindria.”

 

There's an artery, running along both of Kouen's thighs. It would be easy, had he a blade, to cut both of them and let him bleed out onto the floor.

 

 _Next time_ , Ja'far thinks, shoving those thoughts from his mind as he huffs out a breath, scooting closer and briefly laying his cheek against the inside of one thigh, just to _hear_ the hot thrum of that blood and bind it to memory--all the easier to imagine it spilling. _Next time, I'll have a blade, and I'll make you regret this,_ he thinks, looking up through his lashes.

 

Even still, he doesn't want to think about Kouen ordering him to do this _again_.

 

Ja'far's fingers _do_ shake as they properly undo the fastenings of those robes, as they wrap around the hardening length of Kouen's cock. There's an urge, instinctively, to compare him to Sinbad--but that's useless when it's more productive to try and imagine this _is_ Sinbad, no matter if the feel of him in his grasp is wrong, no matter if they taste nothing alike when he nuzzles forward to drag his tongue over the head of Kouen's cock. His eyes shut, and he hopes it looks less like disgust and some sort of whorish pleasure instead, what with the effort it takes not to gag--and his fingers squeeze in a slow stroke, his lips parting to better wrap around the head of his cock.

 

Kouen keeps his eyes trained on Ja’far, watching intently with every swipe of his tongue, coaxing him to full hardness. Ja’far’s hands are nice, not so calloused as most of the maidservants here, and he twitches in that soft grasp, sighing out a breath as the wet warmth closes over him.

 

“I thought you’d be better at this,” he says, almost conversationally. “Since you were his _favorite_ and all. Or was that a lie? His _other_ whores know how to suck cock, at least.”

 

It would _probably_ be bad form, to say that Sinbad much preferred sucking _him_ off than the other way around.

 

Ja'far swallows those words down, and instead lets his eyes flutter, shoving aside that last, disgusting little urge to gag and retch as he scoots his knees closer, a bob of his head sliding his mouth far further down Kouen's cock. He's heavy on his tongue, thick to the point that his jaw aches, and he _does_ gag when the head of his cock bumps the back of his throat, leaving him to swallow harder and blink away tears as he drags his head back with a panting breath. "Forgive me, my lord," he breathes, even as his lower lip trembles when his tongue flicks out to break the sticky strand of saliva still connecting him to Kouen's cock. "If his preferences are so different than yours, then please feel free to make use of me as you see fit, so that I may learn yours."

 

Ah, he wants to kill himself. 

 

“My _preference_ ,” Kouen says in a clipped, cold tone, “is for a whore who knows when to open her damned _throat_. That is what I would expect from someone who claimed to be a notorious wastrel’s _favorite_.”

 

He grabs Ja’far’s head, yanking him down, relishing the little choking, gagging sounds as much as he is the furious spasms around his cock. “Or was that a lie to distract me from the girl? That would make more sense. Stupid of me to believe that King Sinbad would ever look at you twice.”

 

Ja'far _hates him_.

 

His hands fly up on instinct, grasping at Kouen's thighs, and he _wants_ to rip his head away, or better yet, bite down and be _done_ with this. Ja'far can count on one hand, to be honest, the number of times he knelt been between Sinbad's legs--more than half of them drunk, the rest on a whim, and it makes his stomach churn, the thought of doing it again with _this_ in mind.

 

_If he wants you to be a whore, be a damned whore._

 

Ja'far's eyes squeeze shut, a ragged breath sucked in through his nose, and he swallows hard around Kouen's cock as he nudges his head forward that much more, until there's nothing _left_ for him to take down his throat. It's too much--leaving him on the verge of gagging at any moment, his lips bruised and slick and his jaw aching, but he forces his eyes to crack open all the same, vision blurred with tears as he catches Kouen's gaze. 

 

Kouen sighs out a breath. “That’s better,” he breathes, eyes focused on the tears in those oddly-colored eyes. “All the way in, just like that.”

 

He fucks Ja’far’s mouth in short, sharp strokes, the head of his cock bumping hard against the back of the man’s throat with every thrust, yanking his head this way and that, all the better to _watch_. “That’s right. Look up at me. See who you serve now, whore.”

 

Thoughts of his homeland couldn’t be farther from his mind, and he yanks Ja’far off when he’s close, panting hard and looking down at him. “Where did he like to come?” he asks, eyes dark. “Your king, how did he mark you? Did you wear his seed? Or did you drink from him?”

 

There's no amount of _bathing_ that could ever rid him of Kouen, he knows that already, and there is _no way in hell_ he will be walking out of this room covered in his seed. Ja'far makes a concerted effort not to cough and gag, settling instead for his own, ragged panting, sucking in deep, full draughts of air into his lungs. "I…" His stomach twists, and his voice is little more than a rasp. "Every time… I licked him clean, and drank every drop of him."

 

That does it, and Kouen is sloppy when he grabs at Ja’far’s hair, yanking him down, the head of his cock nudging against his lips. “Go on, then,” he hisses, and the sight of those lips stretched around him is all it takes before he spills, hot and slick over Ja’far’s tongue.

 

This one, he brought on himself.

 

How he manages without gagging, without simply vomiting on the spot is beyond him, but he does all the same, choking every bit of it down and sinking down onto his knees with a heaving breath afterwards. There's another part to it, isn't there? The part about licking him clean, and Ja'far is numb as he does it, face hot, his body trembling.

 

He needs to _hurt something_ , but first and foremost, he needs to stick a finger down his own throat.

 

Kouen relaxes back into his chair, reaching down to brush a thumb over Ja’far’s lips. “Now,” he says, a smile on his face for the first time all day, “ask me nicely.”

 

 _That_ makes him angrier than anything.

 

Ja'far's eyes briefly shut, and it takes everything in his power not to bite as his lips part. It's his tongue that touches Kouen's thumb instead, thank god. Never, _ever_ will he dismiss Judal's aversion to this man again. "Please." His throat is too-tight, and he's not sure he can make the words _pretty_ enough. "Allow me to better serve you by removing these chains."

 

Kouen leans back in his chair, sated. Then, slowly, he leans down, wrapping a hand around one of the manacles, the magic pulsing through them.

 

He meets Ja’far’s eyes, and smiles.

 

“There’s nothing you can do without these chains that you can’t do with them. Be creative.” He strengthens the magic, and uses it to lash the shackles to the floor, just for long enough to avoid Ja’far’s inevitable first strike.

 

Ja'far was wrong. _Nothing_ works.

 

The shock of that, the fact that he's grossly, _grossly_ underestimated the cruelty of this man, lends him to feeling something akin to _paralyzed_ more so than capable of any upward lurch and strike. The weight of the shackles is a dozen times worse, and it has nothing, _nothing_ to do with Kouen's magic. 

 

Worse yet--his face is hot, and suddenly _wet_ , and no, _no_ , that is the last thing that he wants. 

 

_I hate you._

 

It's a miracle, that it doesn't slip from his tongue.

 

 _I hate you._ "Sindria's people will continue to defy you, then." Ja'far's voice is hoarse and tired. _I hate myself._ "Seeing me in chains will convince them of nothing, if I try to sway them."

 

Kouen only laughs. “If I wanted their _cooperation_ ,” he says, standing and adjusting his robes, “I’d hardly have bothered to conquer them. Clean yourself up before you see a healer, you look disgusting.” 

 

He pauses before he opens the door, adding, “And I’ll have you pouring my wine in an hour. Don’t be late.”

 

The door shuts, and it isn't until Ja'far hears Kouen move several paces away that he allows himself the chance to sob. 

 

It's a fortunate thing, that _helplessness_ has never been a feeling Ja'far has felt inclined to languish in. In this case, too, it's more _disgust_ , the sheer fact he got on his knees for a man so far _beneath him_ , and a good thirty minutes of his time is spent bent over a chamber pot, vomiting up the entire contents of his stomach and then some, until he dry heaves and aches and shudders upon climbing to his feet. 

 

He will relish the day when he can taste _Sinbad_ again, the warmth and spice of his mouth, the bump and slide of the callouses along each finger when they curl against his tongue, and god, he will stay on his knees for an eternity for that man, if that it what it takes to burn away the lingering bitterness of Kouen on his tongue.

 

A cold dunk in a bath is enough to steel his nerves, clean robes another, and cornering Yamuraiha far from the last on his list. It's a hasty, hurried thing, the healing of his leg, and feeling the bone _properly_ set aside from his makeshift bracing is enough to make him bite the inside of his cheek until it bleeds.  

 

No, his last stop is far more important, and far more _satisfying._

 

Ja'far enjoys the ease with which he can move as he lets himself into the dining hall, long-strided and swift as he prefers. There's still a lingering ache in his leg, but far more prominent is the sharp, tingling pain of his earlobe, and with every step, the swing of the brass hoop there is a _reminder_ , and a pleasant one at that.

 

_Thank you, Masrur._

 

The stare he levels upon Drakon hopefully says it all as he picks up the jug of wine, the severed lengths of his chains clinking loosely down his arms. _Though if I die tonight, I still have not forgiven_ you _._

 

Sinbad, being among the living, is no reason not to _fight_. If anything, it should be even more of one.

 

Kouen probably should have expected this.

 

Damn, but he's _annoyed_ , and maybe he should have struck the chains off himself, rather than let the man flaunt it so. There's the lingering urge to re-break that leg, to give him a matching pair, but at this point that would look a little desperate on his part. 

 

He catches Ja'far's robe as he passes, yanking him down to hiss into his ear, "You are very defiant for one whose king has been shat out by dogs weeks hence. Consider your own future, and start _behaving_ yourself."

 

Ja'far merely blinks, innocence finding a natural home on his face. "You _did_ tell me to be creative, my lord," he says, tilting his head. "Should I not take your suggestions to heart next time?" 

 

Kouen’s smile is tight, ill at ease on his face. “I can only hope you will be so creative in your application of the tax laws. You have two weeks to restore the economy to what it was, or I will cull those who haven’t paid what I deem is their fair share. For a man of such _ingenuity_ , it should be easy. Am I understood?”

 

And here he was expecting another order to get on his knees in front of everyone.

 

Two weeks, hmm? "Of course, my lord. Though, I was beginning to think you were _enjoying_ your stay in Sindria. Do you want to return home so very badly?" 

 

A shame, that he’s going to have to do _something_ about the brat. There’s no way Kouen can allow this kind of insolence to continue. All that needs be decided is whether he’ll make an example of Ja’far, when he’s done with the taxes, or make an example of someone else for his cheek. 

 

Well, theoretically he doesn’t _have_ to right now. There’s always later. Ja’far hasn’t _really_ said anything offensive...yet. “I find the people tiresome,” he admits, holding his glass out for wine. “As soon as it is able to function as a proper society, I will be only too glad to give it into the care of a provincial governor.”

 

"What a shame." _I will give such a governor a terribly warm welcome should that occur._ Obediently, Ja'far tops off his glass. "I suppose we _haven't_ given you a terribly warm welcome. Most foreign royalty is greeted with a feast--I could have sworn I heard you planning one last night, only for it to be dismissed. Shall I arrange something in your stead?"

 

You have one last chance, Kouen silently vows. _The next insolent thing out of your mouth--no, the next thing out of your mouth that I don’t want to hear--and you will never see the light of day outside a dungeon window again._

 

“Tonight’s meal will suffice,” he manages, trying not to shatter the cup in his hand. “In fact, your silence would be _much_ appreciated through the meal.”

 

Ja'far merely offers him a smile, not even bothering to open his mouth to retort. _Careful, those glasses were Sin's favorite. If you break them, I'll have another reason to hate you, but at least then I'll have something sharp to cut your cock off with._

 

The meal is a tense thing, with no one quite certain what to say. Kouen finishes quickly, having little stomach for the endless onslaught of fish that seems to be Sindria’s idea of _cuisine_ , and stands. “Send me someone attractive for tonight,” he says carelessly to Ja’far. “Use your _creativity_. Gentlemen, goodnight.”

 

Occasionally, Ja'far's tongue gets away even from him.

 

"Bored already with my face?" He's fairly certain Hinahoho drops a glass. Ah, well… "What was the compliment you paid me earlier, about being a reason to never want to leave Sindria?"

 

Right, Kouen’s had enough. “Essinia,” he says, clipped and tight, “inform the army that the prohibition on making sport of any Sindrian citizen they can find is lifted. Tell them to enjoy themselves. And you, _generals_ , would be best served reminding your countrymen that any offense against a Kou Empire soldier is punishable by death by flogging. Good _night_.” He turns, striding for the door.

 

"… Does that mean I don't have to send him a whore?" Ja'far dryly mutters underneath his breath. God, he wouldn't wish Kouen even upon the cheapest of them, and this is proof of it. 

 

Sharrkan is the first to his side, even as Drakon leaves the room, ostensibly to get out some sort of warning, as the Kou generals move to their assigned tasks. “What the hell are you doing?” he demands. “We’re _trying_ to keep as many citizens safe as possible! I’ll go to his damned bed myself to keep that army from our women! Why would you _do_ that to our people?”

 

Ja'far narrowly restrains himself from punching him again, as the door shuts behind the last of Kouen's men. "And you would have me roll over and crawl on my knees for him instead?" he snaps back, rearing himself up to his full height. "A fun fact about that-- _it changes nothing_. He would still do this on a whim, whether or not I provoked him, so sitting on your asses and being _good_ for him like a bunch of beaten dogs is a far worse offense to our people!" He sweeps a hand out in a broadly annoyed gesture. "How can _any_ of you call yourselves _Sindria's generals_ when all you do is take his commands? Smile to his face if you must, but do _something_ behind his back to whittle away his hold on our country!"

 

Sharrkan wants to tear his own hair out. He wants to grab Ja’far and _shake_ him for being so unreasonable, for gambling with _everyone’s_ futures. “We _are_ ,” he snarls. “Just because we voted to let them in doesn’t mean we aren’t _doing_ anything. Why do you think it took us so long to take down the shields? We were getting _ready_ , so that when they came in as few of us as possible would be _here_. There are--” 

 

He cuts himself off. Even if it seems like no one’s watching, it’s hard to be sure. “...things in place,” he says instead of the specifics he was about to name. “And more that we’re setting up all the time so that when you-know-who gets here, there will be a _here_ for him to get back to!”

 

"Things in place." It's a flat, unamused echo. "Oh. I see. How _reassuring_ , especially when your _ringleader_ can't as much as _look me in the eye_ , and not a single _one of you_ deigns to tell me what any of that is. None of you," he hisses through his teeth as he drops his voice, "even told Masrur that you still thought Sinbad was _alive_. Forgive me, if I have little confidence." God, he feels like a child, stamping his foot, and that makes him angrier than _anything ever has_. How _dare they_ make him out to be the foolish one? 

 

Sharrkan breathes out a deep breath through his nose, leaning back against he banquet table. “Look, we wanted to, but obviously we couldn’t tell you _before_ we took the shields down, and after we _kind of_ thought you’d think better of us than to think we just fucking _went along with Kou_! You don’t want to know what some of us have had to do, so just--try and work _with_ us instead of pissing him off all the time! If I see Yamu coming back looking like that again I’m going--” 

 

He cuts himself off, trying not to slam his fist through the table.

 

Ja'far tries to tell himself that relatively, Sharrkan is still a child, that he's only seen immediate and stark success in war and famine, and that he's also seen _cooperation_ in a wartime situation (especially, with his home country) prolong any veer towards great suffering.

 

That lasts for about a moment before he simply lifts an arm, and enjoys cracking the manacle around his wrist against the side of the younger man's head. 

 

"As far as I have seen," he coldly retorts, the blow ringing up his arm long after he draws it back, "you are all just _going along with Kou_. How many times do I have to tell you? Unless your plan is to overthrow his army _this very instant_ , you might as well be sitting on your asses. It doesn't matter what you do to protect our people if Kouen still thinks he has the upper hand. It doesn't _matter_ how much you obey his orders, because eventually, he will laugh in your face and do as he pleases anyway. And do not," he adds, voice shaking, "tell _me_ that I _don't want to know_ what some of you have _had to do._ If you are so worried about your _woman_ , then _do something about it_." 

 

Sharrkan’s face burns, far more with anger than pain--although ow, there’s plenty of pain too. Ja’far hits _hard_. “So your way is the _only_ way to go?” he demands. “Because it looks to me like your way is to make him pissy enough to sic an entire army on our people, and _our_ way was to slowly and steadily get people out of Sindria by ship, and _our_ way has saved probably a couple thousand people so far and _your_ way has gotten Masrur thrown in the dungeon and god knows how many Sindrians attacked tonight!”

 

"… I don't think you understand what it would mean for him to return back to Kou." He's arguing with a brick wall. Give him Drakon at this rate--no, scratch that, if he is the one that is pounding this asinine plan of sneaking about Kouen's back in _all_ things into everyone's head. "If he is _satisfied_ with Sindria, convinced it is underneath his thumb, and he _leaves_ , do you _realize_ how hard it would be to reach him again? Even if Sinbad returns--of which I am not even _convinced_ , because I have yet to see proof, and I sure as hell can't feel a thing without a vessel!--we would be back to square one, and the Kou Empire would _continue being a threat_." 

 

“But he was in Kou before!” Sharrkan argues, and damn, he’s always thought Ja’far was the reasonable one--maybe losing Sinbad affected him worse than Drakon had thought, and he’s really gone mad. “And we were _fine_. I mean, there wasn’t a _lot_ of food, but everyone was alive and together, and not getting killed horribly! Call me crazy, I want to go back to that!”

 

"He was in Kou," Ja'far dully agrees, "planning how to best do all of this. Your thinking is the thoughts of many men--least of all, the tacticians in your home country, and that is why the Kou Empire is eating it alive. Thinking in the short term--in terms of immediate, wartime needs--is only good when you can win a war quickly and decisively. We _can't_. Not right now. I--" 

 

He's talking to a brick wall. Ja'far reminds himself of this again.

 

"… I'm getting to work on the taxes. You can find me if you need me." 

 

Sharrkan grabs Ja’far’s robes, yanking him back by the shoulder. “And what about tonight, huh? At least we’re thinking about the people instead of the kings! What am I supposed to tell those women in a few months when they’ve got Kou bastards in their bellies, that their King’s general was in a bad mood?” His hand drops to his sword hilt. “If you’re not going to do something about this, I will, and I don’t care who tries to stop me.”

 

"Good," Ja'far simply replies as he looks back at the other man, eyebrows raised. "It would be one of the better things you've done. And we can tell them, god willing, that we have a Magi that can _end_ such pregnancies, quickly and relatively painlessly, so at the very least they have no lasting reminder. Though I am curious, Sharrkan. What _would_ you have me do? Slink my way into Kouen's bed, beg him for forgiveness in hopes that he changes his mind?" 

 

“ _Yes_ ,” Sharrkan growls. “If playing with his damned cock makes him spared a hundred Sindrians, then _yes_. What makes you think you’re so much better than anyone out there’s sister, or mother, or children who are going to be doing the same tonight?”

 

Difficult, not to slap him again. "I don't. The _problem_ with that is simple." _You obnoxious little shit_. "It doesn't _change anything._ Would you like to know the _details_ of how it feels, pandering and sniveling to him for an hour, treating him as if he were truly my king, bending to his whim and getting on my knees for him only for him to laugh in my face?" His face is hot, his voice tight. "Do you _understand_ , how little it doesn't matter what I do? Making him angry has the same result, and furthermore, making it more _difficult for him to leave_ with a 'hostile colony' that refuses to cooperate with him-- _that_ is the important thing here! There is something in Kou that he _wants_ to go home to, or did all of you miss that as well?!"

 

Sharrkan’s every muscle is taut, his jaw clenched, face furious. “I notice _you’re_ not out there tonight,” he spits. “Or don’t you remember that _hostile colony_ means getting your people killed? _Sinbad’s_ people? How many are going to die tonight, huh? Because you couldn’t handle getting _laughed at_?” 

 

There’s a sick, angry feeling in his chest. “That’s what happens when you reduce people to _numbers_. Strategy, _whatever_ , in Heliohapt at least we have honor, and we protect our women!”

 

Ja'far is done.

 

"If that is what you think I am doing, then by all means--don't help me." He is _done_. Whatever _tactics_ Drakon has drilled into their heads--it's for war, not for the sake of a country in the long run. It sounds prettier, it _looks_ prettier, but with an empire like Kou breathing down their necks--

 

There's nothing for it. "People die in wars," he dully says, turning away. "People are raped and tortured. Please, think I am so cold-blooded as to enjoy it within the country I helped forge. It might make you sleep better at night." There's no point in listing the things he's tried to do and _done_ , the countless hours spent thinking of ways better to accomplish something, _anything_ , and yet--

 

No, thinking on it longer is merely a waste of time, no matter how it _burns_ , just thinking about how Sharrkan will take this back to the rest of them, and Drakon will nod and say he's been right all along, that Ja'far is _hysterical_ with the loss of Sinbad, and there's nothing for it. 

 

He doesn't need any of them.

 

Gritting his teeth, Ja'far turns on his heel, out of reach in an instant. He has work to be done, and on top of that, and a desk to search. The more he can find _anything_ pointing as to why Kouen wants so badly to return to Kou, the better.

 

~~

 

“It’s not your fault.”

 

Titus’s voice comes out dull and tired, and he slumps back against the wall of his bedroom, drawing his knees up to his chest. Of course it’s not Sphintus’s fault they’d failed again, obviously it’s his own, but Sphintus is getting more upset than _he_ is. He doesn’t have months of failure to help him get used to it, Titus guesses. 

 

“It was always a long shot,” he adds. “I mean, just because it hasn’t worked so far doesn’t mean we should stop trying.” 

 

There are lots of reasons to stop trying. Unfortunately, the messenger from Kou reminding his family about the marriage contract and his duty to have his wife impregnated by a date getting much, much closer than he’d like had sort of reminded Titus that it’s not exactly possible. There’s too much riding on this, and not only for him. Kougyoku, as she’s said a hundred times, will be a laughingstock, pretty much unmarriageable. Lady Scheherezade will be furious, or worse, simply disappointed. And many, many citizens, in his own country and hers, will die in war.

 

_Because of me._

 

Sphintus wants to tear his hair out.

 

Truth be told, he hadn't expected Kougyoku to be so _adverse_ to his _direct_ involvement in the bedroom. Then again, she probably thought he'd be all over her a dozen times over, when focusing on Titus _has_ to be a priority or… the point is sort of moot. 

 

There also isn't much else he can _do_ in the way of trying to _medically_ fix it, and thus--banging his head slowly back into the wall is a pretty good option at this point. 

 

"I'm not going to stop trying." It's a little snippier than he wants it to be, but he isn't in the mood to turn it down a notch or two. "I'm just--I wish I had gotten here _sooner_ , to try and fix this."

 

“I did send you letters,” Titus says miserably. “The roads are pretty unsafe, but I thought a few of them might have gotten through. Obviously I couldn’t say what was wrong, but…”

 

He sighs, tucking his head down into his knees. “What’s the next idea, huh? Got anything nasty for me to eat or drink? The other healers kept wanting me to do that.”

 

"The only letters Heliohapt can get are from Sindria's messengers, that's nothing _new_." Kukulcan is hissing now, as agitated as he is, and Sphintus sighs, heaving himself to his feet to pace towards the open window. "There's not really… anything else I can _give you_. I can try and magically manipulate things, but there are a lot of risks with that…"

 

“I’ll do anything.”

 

Titus’s face burns, even though he’d _thought_ he was over the humiliation of it by now. Apparently not. “It...it doesn’t have anything to do with, uh, being _stimulated_ that way, either. I’ve tried it with a, um, toy, like the wealthy ladies use, I magicked it invisible. No difference.”

 

He's making it worse, he knows, by being this upset about it.

 

Sphintus sucks in a slow, calming breath, turning away from the window to walk back to Titus. "I'll think of something," he says, for what feels like the millionth time, as he kneels down to rest a hand atop the other man's knees. "There's magic to manipulate the way a body works--it's risky, because if it goes wrong… well, one child, if any, might be all you ever sire. And I've… never really done something like that before. I don't want to hurt you." 

 

Titus lays a hand over Sphintus’s, squeezing tight. “I...I mean, that doesn’t exactly sound _encouraging_ the way you put it. If…” He takes a deep breath. “If you can assure me I’ll have one, then I don’t care if nothing ever works again. Her brother’s going to have me killed, you know?”

 

His grip reverses to tightly hold onto Titus's hand. "I won't let him kill you. I'll kidnap you from this country myself and we'll live in the damned desert together if we have to, but I won't let anything happen to you. All right? So just--"

 

It _feels_ like a gust of wind that rushes by them--odd, because Laem's weather had been so mild only moments before. The _thud_ and tumbling roll to follow says differently, and Sphintus blinks, staring at the rather strange, lumpy heap underneath a carpet on the other side of the room that was simply _not there_ before.

 

"I'm never letting you steer again," is the _thoroughly_ irritated grumbling, muffled from underneath the carpet. "Not when we're trying to avoid Scheherabitch's defenses."

 

Titus leaps to his feet, hand on the hilt of his wand, instinctively stepping in front of Sphintus. “Show yourself!” he commands, already drawing sigils in the air--but if the intruder had come through his shields, _his shields_ , who knows what--

 

Titus blinks at the familiar head poking out from under the cloth. “ _Aladdin_?”

 

The other man beams, and rolls forward to come up to his feet, all bright smile and energy like before, but with a couple feet of extra height and _wow_ nice muscles. “Titus! Oh, and Sphintus too, I missed you!”

 

There’s little time to banish the spells, but Titus doesn’t really need to, with the way Aladdin bounds right through them to wrap his arms around their necks.

 

Far from expected, but _damn_ , if Aladdin isn't a sight for sore eyes. "How in the world are you _taller_ than me now?" Sphintus breathes, clapping a hand against Aladdin's back in a tight hug. "Damn, though, don't go flying through the windows in a place like this, Titus's m--er, Lady Scheherazade will have you run through."

 

"Well, walking up to the gates and asking _nicely_ wasn't exactly an option." 

 

Sphintus blinks, craning his head around Aladdin for a glimpse of their _other_ unexpected guest-apparent, and-- _oh_. Damn, Aladdin travels with good-looking company. "Hey, Aladdin, who's your friend?" 

 

Aladdin pulls back, still grinning as he introduces everyone. “Oh, right! This is Sphintus Carmen, from Heliohapt, my roommate at Magnoshutt, and this is Titus Alexius, he’s the First Magician of Laem. And guys, this is Judal, my really special friend!”

 

Titus’s smile freezes on his face. “Ah.” He tears his eyes off Aladdin, and swallows hard at the sight of the stranger in his rooms. He certainly fits the description Titus has heard of the rogue Magi lately of Kou and now of Sindria, and his hand shifts nervously, not _quite_ to his sword. “Your friend? Well...then welcome to Laem,” he manages, and offers his hand.

 

Judal doesn't as much as look at it. "Ah. So you're the one that married Kougyoku?" 

 

Sphintus doesn't quite get the sudden tension he feels from Titus, but, well, he supposes he's more than a little shut out regarding all things political. Also, those legs are really distracting. They sort of go on for miles. But Judal… the name is familiar, though--

 

Wait.

 

"Judal--the _White Oracle?_ "

 

Judal doesn't bother stifling a groan. "Not this _already_ \--god, Aladdin, I didn't come here to talk to your friends, you can do that. Just someone tell me where Kougyoku is, I don't want to go around breaking Scheherabitch's shields to _see_ her." 

 

Titus withdraws his hand. He nearly makes an _issue_ of it, but a look from Aladdin stops him in his tracks. That’s for the best, really. Talented as he is, confident as he is, Titus has no illusions that he could win an kind of magical contest against a Magi. “Er, yes, and I _really_ don’t think you should break Lady Scheherezade’s shields, she gets very--”

 

A peach, ripe and sweet, flies through an open doorway to hit Judal square on the back of the head, bursting open with juice.

 

Rapidly blinking in surprise, Judal lifts a hand to touch the back of his head, his hand coming away sticky and pulpy from the burst fruit. 

 

Judal just shy of _shrieks_ , face already twisted in a snarl before he whirls on his heel. "What the hell?! I've been traveling for days, I'm already gross and sweaty and I fucking _hate_ Aladdin's steering and what the hell kind of country is this if _I_ am greeted like a second class--"

 

Oh.

 

"Ah! The old hag got even older!"

 

Sphintus marks that one off on his list as 'really, really pretty, but too crazy.' 

 

Kougyoku lets out a shriek, running in from the other room and launching herself at Judal, giving him the kind of hug she probably wouldn’t if she had _any_ kind of satisfactory company in this country. “Judal, Judal, you’re here! Ahh, no one ever visits me!”

 

Titus shifts uncomfortably. “Uh, Aladdin, this is my wife, Ren Kougyoku Alexius.”

 

“Oh, I know her,” Aladdin says cheerfully. “Um, I’ll just wait for them to, uh...say hi.”

 

Judal grins, laughing as he scoops the girl up and off of her feet to spin her as he squeezes her tight. He _knew it_ \--he _knew_ Kougyoku at least didn't hate him, that she was just bound to silence by Kouen's hand. It's such a relief that he can't _help_ the urge to just snatch her up and _kiss her_ , hands wrapped tightly up in her hair. "Kinda stupid that they don't," he breathes. "You got pretty. And the way your _rukh_ feels--" 

 

"… Um," Sphintus attempts, sparing a sideways glance to Titus. Should they be letting this continue, or…

 

Kougyoku giggles, blushing madly and grabbing Judal around the neck in a fierce embrace. “It’s just because you’re here, I never get to do _anything_ fun, I--oh, sorry, Titus,” she amends, remembering her manners and not entirely happy about it. She doesn’t exactly jump down, but she does at least stop kissing Judal for the moment, leaning forward to rest her head on his chest instead. “Oh, hi, Aladdin! I missed you there.”

 

“Hi!” Aladdin chirps. “So, uh, you and Titus are married?” he asks, noting Sphintus and Titus’s looks of discomfort.

 

Kougyoku sighs, finally sliding out of Judal’s arms. “Yeah, okay, time to be a good wife. Ah, honored guests, may I serve you tea in the drawing room?”

 

"How about," Judal purrs, not _quite_ inclined to let her slip away just yet as a hand plucks at the back of her dress, "you serve me tea _privately_ in between helping me wash out this mess you've gotten in my hair, hmm? It's your fault it's there, take responsibility." 

 

"… So what brings you to Laem?" Sphintus deadpans in Aladdin's direction instead, giving Titus a last roll of his eyes. _Really_ , he could at least be a little more… uh, protective… of his wife. Or something. _Damn, though, I'd watch those two roll around_ \--

 

Never mind, he has no room to talk.

 

Titus clears his throat, a little uncomfortable with the idea; any other week, any other year he wouldn’t care, and the gods know he has no room to talk about stepping outside the marital bed, but the idea of Lady Scheherezade finding out he’d let someone else--and _Judal the Magi_ of all people--get her with child before he does…

 

It really doesn’t bear thinking about. “I think _everyone_ wants tea,” he says firmly, though he does add, “and after that, I’m sure Sphintus and Aladdin and I have a lot of catching up to do.”

 

Kougyoku pouts, and plucks at the remnants of the peach. “I’ll be _extra-thorough_ later,” she promises Judal, giving him a secret little smile. “I have a million things to tell you, too, so you--hmmm, can you help me set everything up? While my husband and his friends get seated?”

 

The look Judal gives Titus is positively scathing. "… Yeah, fine. We'll catch up, come on." It isn't without an arm slung _very low_ about her waist that Judal drags her out. 

 

"I'm missing something again, aren't I." Sphintus gives Titus's shoulder a prod. "What's with the face, I don't get it, and you're so tense that I swear to god, if I have to give you _another_ massage to fix all of that--"

 

“Don’t you know who that _is_?” Titus demands, keeping his voice low, looking between Sphintus and Aladdin. “That’s Judal the Magi, the White Oracle of Sindria!”

 

“Yeah,” Aladdin says cheerfully. “He’s my friend.”

 

“You don’t get it, if Lady Scheherezade finds him here, she’s--”

 

“Oh, we came to see her, so that’s okay.” Aladdin stretches his arms up, and Titus’s eyes follow the line of his body a little helplessly. “Don’t worry, Judal is a really good person. And he’s really sad about the Kou Empire lately so it’s probably really good for him to get to talk to Kougyoku.” 

 

He gives Titus an affectionate pinch. “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.”

 

"I know who he is--I mean, I've _heard_ of him, I never got a chance to see him before…" A pity, that. "But still, what's the big deal? If Aladdin says he's a good person... Well," Sphintus amends, "other than the fact if he has sex with your wife… that could be a problem. That means he's available, doesn't it?" he quickly directs to Aladdin. If Titus can stare, then he sure as hell can _ask_. 

 

Aladdin frowns, considering as Titus glares. “You mean available for healing? He gets really twitchy if people ask him to do that very often lately, but--oh, or do you mean for sex? I think he’s available. He’s _very_ good at it,” he says loyally.

 

"Excellent. I mean, uh," Sphintus coughs, looking down to Titus with a smile. "C'mon, what's with that look? I was just curious." 

 

“The _problem_ ,” Titus says, with a bit more ice than the question warrants, “is that Lady Scheherezade _hates_ him. If she finds him in here, I have no idea what she’ll do. Actually,” he adds, a bit chagrined, “she might not be too pleased to see you either, Aladdin. She gets…tense, about other Magi.”

 

Aladdin’s face falls. “Do you want me to go?”

 

“No, no, I’m just...warning you,” Titus finishes helplessly. “I’ll try to do what I can, just be on your toes.”

 

"Scheherazade can deal with it." 

 

Judal pushes open the door with his hip, holding it open for Kougyoku. "She should be _grateful_ I'm here, all things _considered_." It isn't said without a rather _amused_ look at Titus. "I suppose the _children_ of Magi aren't so predisposed to all talents." 

 

Titus flushes red, looking everywhere but, well, at _anyone_. “I don’t see why I should be lucky you’re here. I’ve seen every kind of healer you can think of, and if Lady Scheherezade can’t help me--”

 

“Titus, are you sick again?” Aladdin’s eyes are wide, hugely concerned. “I thought we took care of that! Oh no, has it come back?”

 

Titus wants to die.

 

"He doesn't need another healer," Sphintus sharply interrupts, a hand immediately closing over his shoulder. "I'm here already, and it's nothing I can't handle." 

 

"Ooh?" Judal cocks his head. "For centuries, Heliohapt's medical magicians were little better than assassins, planting illness in their enemy courts. Maybe if you had that kind of skill, you would have already done it on behalf of your country, hmm?"

 

Sphintus's fingers dig in, far too tight to be _soothing_. "Shut up." 

 

Titus grimaces at the sudden pain in his shoulder, trying to pry Sphintus’s fingers out of his skin and muscles. “Sphintus is a great healer,” he says irritably. “No matter what the famed _White Oracle_ might--”

 

“I’m sure Sphintus wouldn’t do anything to hurt Titus,” Aladdin interrupts, coming to stand between the two duos. “Really, they’ve been best friends since they stopped hating each other!”

 

 _Really reassuring there, Aladdin._ At least it's enough to make Sphintus suck in a short, _calming_ breath, loosening his hold abruptly and giving Titus's shoulder a gentle, apologetic rub laced with magoi. "Sorry," he mutters, shooting Judal another glare, who merely smirks. "Kinda understanding why Scheherazade doesn't like him now." 

 

"Ahh, suit yourself," Judal dismissively shrugs, flouncing further into the room. "I didn't come here to fix anyone's dick, anyway. Kougyoku, sit in my lap, let your _husband_ pour the tea and take care of you for a change." 

 

Titus’s face flames as Kougyoku settles happily into Judal’s lap, and it only worsens with Aladdin’s look of concern. “What’s wrong with it?” he asks in dismay. “Did it get cut off or something?”

 

“It’s fine,” Titus snaps, all evidence to the contrary. “Sit down, I’m pouring tea!”

 

Aladdin knows that tone, and he sits quickly, lest Titus reach for his wand.

 

Judal snickers into the back of Kougyoku's head, letting his fingertips drift along the side of her neck to push the fall of her hair there away. "It might as well be," he answers Aladdin without batting an eye. "He's not a very _loving_ husband."

 

Sphintus wonders if he has the skills to take down a Magi. Maybe, if he and Titus go after him together--

 

The teapot hits the wall, bare inches from Judal’s head, though the shrapnel disappears before it can hit anyone. The liquid doesn’t, scaldingly hot as the door swings shut behind Titus, and Aladdin drops down to his knees, frowning. “That’s not very nice,” he chides gently. “He was really, _really_ sick, he’s probably still dealing with that.”

 

Judal rolls his eyes at the sharp glare Sphintus fixes upon him before scrambling to follow after Titus. "Hardly. He just doesn't like girls. Geez, Kougyoku, how'd you manage that sort of luck?"

 

“Because I took the first marriage that got me out of Kou,” she sighs, nestling her head against his chest, then giving his braid a tug. “Honestly, after that whole debacle I was lucky when En let me out of the Palace, and Laem sounded so far away, and I knew it wouldn’t be too easy for him to march in what with the Magi in charge and all.” She huffs out a breath. “And he was very pretty.”

 

“He is, isn’t he?” Aladdin says with a grin. “When we met I thought he was a girl. I mean, his butt and his voice and everything…”

 

"A lot of good that's doing you now," Judal mutters, half-burying his face down into her hair. "Hey. Do you know where Kouen is now? I was kinda surprised not to find him sitting outside of Laem's gates, to be honest." 

 

“He’s not?” she asks, and sags down in relief. “Oh, _good_ , I’m meant to be pregnant by the end of the month or he’s to storm in and take me back. Hopefully he’s in another war somewhere--well, not _hopefully_ , you know what I mean. It isn’t as though he likes me to know things, not after I told him to make peace with Sindria.”

 

"… You actually told him that?" That's another, little relieved flutter, and Judal's arms tighten around her, pulling her further into his lap. Even if he doubts Kouen would heed a word out of her mouth, it's still the fact that she _said it._ "Pregnant, huh?" _Not_ chewing on her is rather impossible, especially when her neck and shoulder are _right_ there. "I can do something about that." 

 

Kougyoku’s breath comes out in a wistful little whine, something like _arousal_ shooting through her for the first time in what feels like forever. “I’d _love_ that,” she admits, but grabs his head before he can do anything about it. “But Lady Scheherezade said she’d know if it was anyone but Titus, and between my red hair and his blond, you’d be sort of a dead giveaway.”

 

Still, she squirms a bit on his lap, flushing as she looks over at Aladdin. “Is it just because I see so few real men lately, or did you _both_ grow up really nicely?”

 

"Mmn," Judal murmurs, splaying his fingers over her hips as he tugs her back, tilting his head to nip at the curve of her ear no matter how she tries to stop him. "No, Aladdin is _really_ good-looking," he breathes, shooting the other man a slow smirk. "We could just _play_ a little… all three of us. We'll be good. And maybe afterwards, if your husband has stopped _sulking_ , I can do something about him. I don't want you to go back to Kou."

 

It’s been a _while_ since Aladdin’s been with a woman, a startlingly long time for him, and Kougyoku’s always been so pretty. And best of all, she looks _excited_ , eyes darting between the two Magi, and Aladdin can see her rukh pulsing. She worries at her lip, then breaks out into a grin, squirming around to straddle Judal’s lap, crooking a finger to Aladdin, who comes closer as eagerly as any puppy. “I guess if you _promise_ to be good,” she says, breath hitching, and god, it’s been _so_ long since she’s had any fun, “there’s no real harm in it.”

 

This is _much_ better.

 

The irritation from the past few days of travel fly out the window, the worry about _Kouen_ as well, all when Judal gets to properly bury his face into the side of her neck, nipping, sucking and _biting_. He'd wanted a chance to have Kougyoku all to himself, _especially_ after the moment she greeted him as if nothing had ever happened or changed, but Aladdin… Aladdin is _different_ , and she seems all the happier for it, so that's _fine_. 

 

"I don't know how he keeps his hands off of you," Judal breathes, his fingers creeping up into her hair, pulling free the pin holding it up, and just a _touch_ to that metal vessel makes him feel her rukh all the more clearly, raking a shudder down his spine. "I just want to eat you alive." 

 

Good luck keeping his word on being _good_ , at this rate.

 

Kougyoku can’t help but wriggle, scooting forward until she can feel the hardness of him pressing against her, and god, she could _sob_ with how good that feels. _Not ugly, not gross, not enough to turn a man’s stomach after all, he is just weird,_ she thinks in utter, mind-melting relief, and for that alone she’d gladly do just about anything Judal wanted. 

 

Relief quickly turns to more arousal, especially when Aladdin--who used to be such a cute little boy, when did he get so _attractive_ \--spoons up behind her, straddling Judal’s lap too, long arms coming around to squeeze and massage her breasts, and _oh_ that feels a lot better than she’d been expecting. Maybe there’s a reason so many women like it when Aladdin puts his hands on them, she reflects dimly, and long nails rake down the back of Judal’s neck. “Judal,” she whines, “touch me, please, make me feel pretty.”

 

Judal groans, his breath a hot, ragged thing as she wriggles against him, and his hands rake through her hair, skimming down her sides, yanking at the fastenings of those long, sweeping robes to better open them and let Aladdin touch just as much. "You _are_ pretty," he murmurs, sucking her lower lip into his mouth as his thumbs press into the jut of her hips. " _Beautiful_. I'll kill anyone that tells you differently." That last little sash is tugged away, and god, it feels good to sink his fingers into the soft skin of her thighs--even _better_ , to slide a hand up, breath hitching as his fingers drag again the slick, hot wetness of her. "I want to fuck you," he breathes into her neck, "so, _so_ badly." 

 

Kougyoku shudders under the touch, shudders with her whole body, lurching forward to wrap her legs around his waist, clinging tightly to his neck as she rocks down onto his hand. “I--ahh--I want you in me so bad, god, but I--”

 

Aladdin moves forward to nibble on her neck, and she squirms even more, gasping at the way he tugs and rubs at her nipples. “Don’t worry,” Aladdin breathes, and since when did his voice make her so, so _wet_? “We’ll take good care of you. We don’t want you to get in trouble.” Even if it _is_ hard for him to keep his hands anywhere close to off of her, even if he doesn’t even try.

 

 _Judal_ wants to get her in trouble. _To hell with Scheherazade_ , he irritably thinks. It's hard to think past how _wet_ Kougyoku is against his hand, how she wiggles and squirms and clings to him, and _god_ , just carefully wriggling one finger inside of her makes him groan at how tight and _hot_ she is inside, the way she clenches and shudders enough to drive him mad. 

 

"Later," he manages to bite off in a promise. "Later, I'll put it in you," he tells her, his cock twitching with each shiver he can feel running through her as much as her _rukh_ , when his thumb slides up to drag slick and teasing over her clit. "I'll lay you down and spread you open," he breathes into her ear, sucking the lobe of it into his mouth. "You'll be so full, you'll forget what it's like to ever be without."

 

Kougyoku lets out a soft, needy cry, rocking desperately down into his touch, back against Aladdin, and ah, she can _feel_ him hard and hot behind her, rubbing against the cleft of her ass through his own clothes, and god, she’s _never_ felt so aroused. She’s not quite sure when she starts coming, all of it an electric, wild thing as she rides Judal’s hand, hips bucking madly as she fastens her mouth to his neck, and no matter how long she _twitches_ it just doesn’t seem to be _enough_ , wave after wave doing little but reminding her low long it’s been since she felt so _good_.

 

“Hey, Judal,” Aladdin says behind her, and Kougyoku can hardly move of her own volition, spasms rocking her body still. “Lay her down on her back, I want a taste.”

 

 _Me too_ , Kougyoku thinks dazedly, making an inaccurate grab for Judal’s cock.

 

"I bet," Judal murmurs, _slowly_ sliding his hand away, his fingers slick and sticky when he brings them to Aladdin's lips, "she still tastes good. Sweet, kinda like that peach you threw at me, hmm?" He grins, and in one easy shift and shove, splays the girl out onto her back between them, rather liking the picture of disarray that she paints--hair loose and mussed over the floor, robes open and all but falling off. His own cock is so hard that it makes him hiss just to pull it out, his fingers squeezing tight around himself to stop himself from coming right then. "How about me?" he lowly rasps, another hand wrapping its way into her hair, tugging her mouth over to his cock.

 

Kougyoku makes a pleading little noise, squirming around to better fit her mouth over the head of his cock, sloppy, grateful sounds as she sucks eagerly. She pulls off after a few seconds, saliva sticky on her lips as she murmurs, “Really good,” before wriggling her way back down again.

 

She hisses in a sharp breath, squealing at the touch of a skilled tongue dragging up between her legs, teasing over the slit, and the vibrations of a voice saying, “She tastes way better than peaches,” in an awed tone thick with arousal.

 

Judal swallows hard, his fingers twisting tight into her hair as his hips jerk up on their own accord, sliding hot and heavy over the slick wriggle of her tongue. It would be _enough_ , just watching her--the stretch of her lips around him, the way her cheeks flush and her eyes flutter not just because of _him_ , but because of Aladdin's face buried between her legs and ah, god, it shouldn't be so good to watch _that_ as well.

 

"You look so, so good like that," he pants out, a thumb dragging over her cheek, somehow managing to keep his hips to a slow, even rock, all the better to _savor_ something he's thought about for the past damn _week_. "God, and listen to you, you make the cutest sounds. He's good with his mouth, isn't he? I bet he could make you come all over yourself again, just with his tongue."

 

Kougyoku grabs at Judal’s hips, sucking hard even as her back arches, and _god_ she’s never imagined anything like the pulse and throb of the energy between these two. Even without being a Magi she can feel it easily, stealing what little breath she has and making her pant through her nose in a way she’s sure sounds gross, but can’t _stop_. More, she wants more of that taste on her tongue, and one hand steals down to tangle in soft blue hair, grinding Aladdin’s face down.

 

It isn’t as if he needs the extra encouragement, though it’s _always_ nice to be appreciated. The way Kougyoku squirms and whines is enough, not to mention the sweet, metallic tangy taste of her, something Aladdin licks up with every wriggle of his tongue before sliding a pair of fingers into her in a smooth steady rhythm, flicking the tip of his tongue over her clit, drinking in her moans.

 

God, he can't _help_ but grab tighter at her hair, pulling her mouth down his cock with a hiss of breath. Her mouth feels too good, too hot, too _perfect_ , with every slide of her tongue and suck around him when Judal lets her pull off. His cock throbs, watching every shiver and tremble through Kougyoku body, watching _Aladdin_ work as well, and just feeling that shivery, shuddery press of rukh around the three of them is enough to make it impossible to hold back.

 

"Open your mouth," he groans, rubbing the head of his cock over her lips as he pulls back. "I want to watch you… ahh, god… swallow it, when I come." 

 

Just _saying it_ snaps the last bit of his self-control, and Judal bites his lip as he spills over her lips and tongue, his head tipping back with a ragged exhale. 

 

Kougyoku’s eyes lid in sweet, earnest relief as she swallows as she’s bid, running her tongue over the head of Judal’s cock, licking until there’s nothing left, then giving the head a last suck before she lets her head tip back. Her voice is ragged when she moans, toes curling, hands scrabbling for something to hold on to as her body arches violently, back coming off the floor as her legs thrash, and for a while she can’t see anything at all.

 

Eventually, that sweet slick pressure recedes, leaving her in a twitching mess on the ground, panting as she looks up at the two of them. “Oh,” she manages weakly.

 

"Same," Judal breathes, his smirk indulgent as he reaches for Aladdin, grabbing at his braid to tug him over even as he leans to kiss Kougyoku, nibbling and sucking on her lips. "Worth the wait, wasn't it? Ah, god, you're so hard," he distractedly mumbles, pulling away from her mouth as his hand slides between Aladdin's legs and beneath clothing, eagerly grabbing for his cock.

 

Kougyoku starts to close her hand over Judal’s, only to pull it back, eyes flashing. That actually...looks really nice. “Do you like his cock, Judal?” she asks, a sweet sing-song in her voice, breathy expectation, and ah, she twitches at the thought no matter how spent she is.

 

Aladdin’s hand wanders to her breasts, and she _hardly_ minds that. “He does,” the young man agrees. “He’s really good with it too.”

 

"Like it a lot," Judal is all too eager to affirm, his thumb swiping over the slick, dripping head of it, and the thick weight of it in his hand is enough to make him squirm. "I'd let him fuck me, and you could watch," he breathlessly says, a teasing smirk cast up at the other Magi, "but I think you've got him too riled up to last, Kougyoku."

 

Kougyoku sits up on her elbows, wriggling around until her mouth is close enough that Aladdin can feel the hot breath against the head of his cock. “Next time?” she asks, eyes alight with just the _idea_ , so obscene it makes her shiver.

 

Aladdin nods. “Definitely. You’ll...ah...you’ll like the faces he makes. Judal’s pretty when he’s...getting fucked, ah--finish--”

 

“I want it,” Kougyoku breathes. “Judal, please, make him…”

 

"Next time," Judal agrees with a shudder, his fingers sliding slick and tight down the length of Aladdin's cock, nearly biting a hole through his own lip at how _hard_ he is. It's too easy to imagine Aladdin fucking him in front of her, and he wouldn't even have to _try_ to put on a show. "I'll be really good for you, too," he groans, lurching up to suck on the side of Aladdin's neck. "I'll wiggle and squirm when you put it in, and ride you like a whore." 

 

Aladdin lets out a breathy laugh, lurching forward into Judal’s hand. “Like that’s any different from usual. You always act like a whore when I fuck you,” he says, fondly like the compliment it is. 

 

The words and Judal’s hand and the sight of Kougyoku on her knees in front of his cock, mouth open and pleading, is more than enough. He’s still got the taste of her on his tongue, and ruts forward, coming hard with a cry muted into his hand, spilling over the princess’s lips and chin as her tongue darts out to lick it up, to lick him clean. 

 

Her eyes widen, and she blinks up at Judal after swallowing, and swallowing, and licking Aladdin clean. “He tastes _good_ ,” she murmurs, “and there’s so _much_ of it, where have you been hiding him away?”

 

"Can't have him, he's mine," Judal sighs, sated as he flops back and sucks his own fingers clean with a little, lingering shudder. "But I'll share with you, while we're here. Come here," he mumbles, grabbing for her to drag her close, wrapping his fingers up into her hair again. He _does_ like red hair. Blame his upbringing, or whatever. "Takes the edge off a bit, doesn't it? And I meant it, about helping." Not that he _wants_ to play healbitch while he's here, but if he _has_ to…

 

Kougyoku nestles against Judal’s chest, sighing out a breath, not even annoyed by her own sweaty stickiness. “I’ll take all of you two I can get while you’re here.” She tugs on Judal’s hair, asking tiredly, “Can you make him like girls?”

 

Aladdin blinks. “I don’t get it.” Everyone likes girls.

 

Oh boy. "… Remember how I told you that I usually like guys more?" Judal wryly replies, drawing Aladdin down to the other side of him. "I guarantee Titus _only_ likes them. I guess I can't blame him too much. I mean, damn, look at his _mother_." He stretches out lazily. "It's easy enough to bottle a biological reaction, though; I'll get it done."

 

“Don’t be mean to him,” Kougyoku says lazily, drawing little patterns on Judal’s chest. “He’s a really nice boy. A hell of a lot better than anyone else En wanted to sell me to, and before all this started he was a pretty good husband except for in bed.” She stretches, smiling. “He buys me things.”

 

"… I'd buy you better things." Eh, not worth getting in a pissing match over, but he's still _annoyed_ , in a way, that Kougyoku is married. "I'll be nice enough. I can't help but tease him a _little,_ though."

 

Kougyoku scowls, giving his chest a little slap. “Don’t be like that, you sure as hell never asked for my hand. And be _careful_ if you tease him, he gets really upset really easily.”

 

“He used to be like that at school,” Aladdin agrees. He flops over, laying his head on Judal’s thigh, his hand on Kougyoku’s. “He tried to kill me the first time we met because I tried grabbing his boobs in public.”

 

Judal idly pinches one of her nipples in revenge. "If he's a guy and had _boobs_ , he deserved you doing that in public." 

 

Kougyoku squeaks, then giggles when Aladdin’s hand comes up too, softly squeezing the other breast. “He doesn’t _really_ have boobs,” she protests. “I know he looks like a woman but he definitely has all the right parts. They just don’t all work.” Her last word changes into a breathier whine, and she shoves at Judal’s hand. “Don’t start that unless you want to finish it.”

 

"But you're fun to poke at. Do you still take those peach baths?" he teases, giving her hair a tug instead. They should _probably_ let up, considering how wild the rukh already is. 

 

Kougyoku sighs. “They have grapes here, mostly, so I take wine baths. Not as many peaches as in Laem. Hey, would you go talk to him at least? If I can just get pregnant already I can hang out with you forever.” She turns to look up at him, pleading in her eyes. “I just want this whole stupid thing to be over.”

 

Ugggh, he doesn't want to get up, but… "All right, all right. If he's calmed down, you think," Judal mutters, pushing himself up with a stretch. "Aladdin can keep you company while I'm gone." 

 

Kougyoku starts to say something, but disappears in a flutter of blue hair, letting out a squeal. “I’ll take care of her,” Aladdin promises gleefully, burying his head in her breasts. “Go help Titus and we can all play some more later!”

 

He didn't come to this country to be a _healer_. That's why he _left_ , after all.

 

Still, it's Kougyoku. Having one last line to his past is proof that it wasn't all bad, and preserving that is something Judal _needs_. So, grumbling, he dresses, still tying his robes back into place as he bumps the door open with his hip and leaves. 

 

Maybe, if he does this to help her, she won't hate him when she finds out what he did to her brothers.

 

Shivering, Judal pushes that aside. Right. Task at hand. Titus. Annoying blond shit. Girly as hell, not to his taste at all.

 

And _easy_ to find, with magoi like that. 

 

"Your wife is happier now," he announces, and immediately, he's met with a glare from his--yeah, 'healer' his ass, that's definitely his wanna-be husband. "You're welcome." That phrasing probably wasn't nice.

 

Titus hands the pipe back to Sphintus, taking a last deep breath. It had helped him stop shaking, once he’d calmed down, no matter the sounds he’d heard coming from the parlor. Sphintus had helped, just by being a warm, broad chest to lie against until he’d gotten himself sorted, and now he blinks in mild surprise at the Magi. “Thank you,” he says, bowing his head graciously. “She’s spoken of you often, I know she must have been delighted to see you. I...apologize for my rudeness.”

 

Right. Being polite. Saving face. All that mess that he's not good at. Judal exhales a slow breath through his teeth. "I wasn't the nicest either. Let's call it even." His head tips to the side. "So, do you need a real healer, or--"

 

Sphintus fairly growls. "I already told you--"

 

"You can say you did it, I don't care, if you've been hired or something," Judal interrupts with a wave of his hand. "I'm just doing Kougyoku a favor, and I guarantee I can do it faster than you."

 

Titus bites his lip, looking from the Magi to his lover. “If he _says_ you can take the credit for it,” he says quietly, leaning close, “you’d still get the reward to take back to Heliohapt.” He turns to Judal, unsure. “Can you do it without hurting either of us or damaging our chances to conceive? I was given to understand that was impossible.”

 

Sphintus strangles down another protest. That isn't even the _point_ \--ugh. He looks away, irritated, and Judal tries his best not to roll his eyes.

 

"For pretty much every medical magician alive, they're telling you the truth," Judal answers with a shrug. "Doesn't matter how good they are, there's still way too much going on to set it all right at once. For a Magi, it's different--well. A Magi that knows what they're doing." Hilarious, that Scheherazade obviously _doesn't_.

 

Titus can see how upset Sphintus is, and it feels like a cold weight in his belly. Quietly, he says in a low voice, “You know how important this is. This has nothing to do with not trusting you.” 

 

It hurts a little to even trust to hope, but he can’t _help_ it, this sounds like the biggest lead he’s had yet, and then maybe everything can stop being so _miserable_. “What do I have to do?”

 

Sphintus _wants_ to keep being angry, but he swears his eyes nearly pop out of his head as Judal smiles, and suddenly leans far, _far_ too close to Titus for it to be considered appropriate. "You were looking at Aladdin earlier, weren't you?" he conversationally begins, seemingly entirely out of the blue, and uh, that's definitely a hand on his lover's thigh. "Seems like you have a type." 

 

This must be a thing all Magi do, Titus thinks frantically. It must be, because only Aladdin and his Lady have ever been able to throw him so easily, send him completely off his game in a second, and he slaps at the Magi’s hand, face painfully red. “He’s my _friend_ ,” he protests hotly. “I haven’t seen him for years, keep whatever filthy thoughts you have to yourself!”

 

"So you didn't think at all, what it might be like being Kougyoku when his mouth was at work? Ah, or are your thoughts too _pure_ to think about that?" Judal's eyes lid as his gaze flickers to Sphintus. "Nah. They're definitely not." 

 

Sphintus tightens a protective arm around Titus's waist. "What does this have to do with--"

 

"Maybe less his mouth, and more how easily he'd be able to shove you into a wall? Or back into your lover, here," Judal breathes, smirking. "You'd probably like being stuck between the two of them." 

 

Titus’s voice dies in his throat. God, he _had_ thought of it, just for a second, looking at the long lean muscles of Aladdin’s arms, and being shoved between him and Sphintus, having them talking casually about him while they _fucked_ him--

 

He swallows hard, shifting a little in his seat. “Of course not. And I’ll _thank_ you and him to keep your hands off my wife.”

 

Not that it’s any use. Not that he won’t be able to _see_ , and damn it, none of his other healers had talked like this.

 

Well, that was easy enough! "I won't, but you're welcome!" Judal cheerfully retorts, spinning a bit of magoi about one finger as he straightens, his other hand on his hip. "You're _easy_ , you know that? Your body is so _honest._ Do you come fast? Because I'm pretty sure she'll be glad and then she can get back to me--"

 

" _Enough_ ," Sphintus bites out, hauling Titus back closer to him still. 

 

Judal doesn't bat an eye. "At any rate, this has to cook for a bit, after I enclose it--give me a day or two, at the most, and this'll be done and over with."

 

War with Kou would be better than this. 

 

Titus wants to cry, or kill something, the tension in his shoulders worse than ever, and someone _knows_ now, someone who isn’t Sphintus, and it’s more desperation than he’s ever felt when he reaches out, grabbing Judal’s arm. His voice is shaky, terrified as he whispers, “Please...you can’t tell anyone. It’s not like other countries, they don’t _allow_ it here.”

 

Judal's eyebrows slowly raise. "… Do you _really_ think I care?" he bluntly replies, batting Titus's hand away. "It's not exactly _talked_ about in Sindria, either, or particularly smiled upon. Everyone thinks I'm a whore, I just don't care. And I realize--" he interrupts with a wave of his hand before Sphintus can open his mouth. "That here in Laem, it's a matter of you getting killed. I'm not gonna say anything. One, you haven't done anything to me to piss me off that much, and two, I need you alive and well to take care of Kougyoku." He leans in close, eyes lidded. "And you _will_ take care of her."

 

Relief courses through Titus, and he draws himself up, nodding. “Of course. She is my wife, and I am an Alexius. I…” He swallows hard, looking down. “I _want_ to make her happy. I wouldn’t have married her if I thought I couldn’t. I just didn’t know...how much I couldn’t.” God, he _hates_ this.

 

"Tell your mother I'm not a health hazard to the empire and that'll make her happy, because then I'll be able to visit," Judal offers with a shrug. "Kougyoku has nothing but good things to say about you. She's just bored and lonely and I don't like it." 

 

That sends some guilt through Titus, and he nods shortly. “Very well. I--you should understand that one doesn’t _tell_ Lady Scheherezade things, least of all me. Um...how will I know when, um, whatever you did, uh, works? I don’t want to miss my opportunity, as it were.”

 

"Then I'll tell her." Right, how was it that Sinbad always put it… _don't start a war_. He'll have to remember that. "And literally, I need to bottle it, and you can schedule your little time with her whenever you want. She wanted it to work fast," he dryly adds, "so it will work fast." _I'm not letting you get dragged back to Kou_.

 

Titus sags a little against Sphintus in relief, reaching for the pipe and taking another long drag. “You have my thanks. Undoubtedly hers as well, but if mine are worth anything to you, you have them.”

 

"You're welcome." Not _so_ hard to be sincere about that, even with Sphintus scowling at him. "Then if you don't mind, I'm gonna go spend more time with her while this cooks. I'll find you, when it's ready."

 

The second he’s gone, Titus turns to Sphintus, laying a head on his shoulder, raising the end of the pipe to his lips. “You aren’t terribly angry with me, are you? For letting him help? It’s only that you told me there wasn’t much you could do, and he’s _going_ to let you have the reward anyway for Heliohapt…”

 

Sphintus heaves a long sigh. "Why would I be angry with _you?_ " he mutters. "I want this fixed and _done with_ as much as you do. I'm just… I don't know, pissed off that I couldn't really do anything." _Yet again._ "And please, your mother's going to know I didn't do it. I'd rather not lie to her face, she'd probably _level_ Heliohapt."

 

“But she also won’t want to give Judal any credit,” Titus points out. “I told you she _hates_ him.” He butts his head against Sphintus’s shoulder, turning to kiss a bit of exposed skin. “And you did a lot. Remember what a nervous wreck I was when you showed up? I was just going to let Kouen kill me. Now at least I’ll make a run for it or something, if this doesn’t work out.”

 

 _That_ Sphintus can't help but laugh at. "And by that you mean let me throw you over my shoulder and haul you across the desert. But it's not gonna come to that," he grumps, lifting a hand to tug on one of Titus's braids. "I've never seen anything _like_ what he did. I didn't get it at first, but he literally copied a biological reaction down into rukh, and from there into a spell. That's like… god, I don't even know how much magic at once. I dunno why your mom hates him so much, but I'll stick with hating him out of sheer jealousy." _If I could do that, my entire country would be fine._

 

“Hmm, I think she hates him because he blew up something she liked, or something about his birth killing someone she loved, something weird like that. Magi stuff,” Titus dismisses it, burrowing into Sphintus’s shoulder. “I mean, I’m not terribly keen on his habit of making love to my wife like one room over, but if he can save my country from war I’ll learn to live with it. That doesn’t go for Aladdin, though,” he mutters crossly. “That’s just rude.”

 

"Aladdin never was terribly good when it came to, uh, appropriate social interactions." An understatement. Sphintus tugs his pipe away, needing to smoke the more he thinks about all of this mess. "If you told him to stop, he probably would, but… then he'd make that sad face and _ugh_." It's no better now that he's older, either, Sphintus imagines.

 

“Gods forbid,” Titus says, only half in jest. “I don’t _mind_ , and I certainly don’t relish the idea of telling her what to do with her body when I’m dallying with you, but...well, it’s just a bit rude.” He sighs, snatching the pipe back from Sphintus. “Oh...we need more leaves. I’ve got some up in my bedroom…?”

 

"Walking back through _those_ three to get them? No thanks," Sphintus mutters, rolling his eyes. "Well--at least she's got good taste? I guess. Magi and all."

 

“I’d say she has good _luck_ more than good _taste_. Er...you know what I mean.”

 

"I dunno, you seemed to think she had pretty good taste when it came to _Aladdin_ , at least." 

 

“At least the first words out of my mouth to Aladdin weren’t ‘Is your friend available for sex?’”

 

"Well, did you _look_ at him?" Sphintus shoots back with a huff. "He's an ass, but _damn_."

 

Titus huffs, folding his arms over his chest. “Go and share a pipe with _him_ , then. All I did was look a _little bit_ , you looked like you were about to tackle him to the floor.”

 

Sphintus gives his side a pinch. "Hey, now. If I wasn't more _forward_ , I never would've gotten a piece of you. Don't complain so much."

 

“I don’t mind when it’s with _me_ ,” Titus argues. “Just…” He shoves Sphintus down into the nearest armchair, and sits pointedly, heavily on his lap. “You’ve been claimed, all right?”

 

"Are you taking me as a concubine?" is the dry retort, though Sphintus doesn't seem of the mind to protest. "Huh. Do they even _have_ that sort of thing here? I mean, obviously not with a guy doing it with another guy… Laem is so damn stuffy," he adds in a grumble.

 

Titus sighs, leaning his head back. “No. I’ve heard about those in books, and we don’t have anything like that here. A woman is only marriageable if she’s virgin, and the men, especially the gladiators, amuse themselves with slave girls owned by the large brothels. They’re either captured war prisoners or born into it. That’s the only sort of liason outside of marriage that’s not punishable by law, because a slave isn’t technically a person.”

 

"… It's hard to believe this is a Magi's country," Sphintus admits. "If Aladdin and his friend are any indication, I'd thought they'd be a little more… ah… free-spirited?"

 

“My Lady doesn’t like filth.” Titus gives a little shrug. “I could do with a bit more, myself. Tell me about Heliohapt again. But not the bit about the beggar children, tell me the good things.”

 

 _So the way it used to be, which is mostly what my sisters remind me of nowadays_. "You'd melt," he says with a grin, giving Titus's hip a gentle pinch. "It's hot, really hot, and you know, _most_ of the women walk around without covering their chests. We don't even blink at that there. And all the highest ranked royals have harems, and there's always a party or some foreign nobility visiting, because our food and festivals and music are some of the best in the world… you'd be a little shellshocked, I think."

 

“It sounds wonderful,” Titus says honestly. His imagination readily supplies the pictures, every illustration he’d been told was of a _heathen country_ melded together in a big, sweltering whirlwind, full of attractive men like Sphintus eating food off of sticks or something equally, delightfully barbaric. “Would you want me in your harem?”

 

"Of course I would." That's a nice mental image. " _You'd_ get fought over," Sphintus laughs. "All that pretty pale skin and those big eyes of yours? Men and women _both_ would be clawing at each other to try and have a first chance at you."

 

Titus smiles, shifting around to loop his arms around Sphintus’s neck, inhaling the deep, musky scent of him. “That sounds nice. I mean...I’m guessing the life of a Heliohapt haremee is nicer than a prostitute slave here. How often would I get to see you?”

 

"Are you kidding me? I'd keep you on my hip all the time, royals drag their favorites around like decorations." Sphintus tilts his head, pressing a kiss to the side of Titus's neck. "Being in a harem doesn't mean you're necessarily a prostitute… and you're definitely not a slave. People train from _birth_ to try and get chosen for that sort of thing." _Well, they used to, when the royal family had money._ "A lot of times, the royals don't even have sex with them, so it's not about that. It's a status symbol sort of thing… healers," he adds wryly, "are sort of coveted, for example. Old traditions die hard."

 

“That,” Titus says slowly, “sounds far, far too tempting.” It’s easy to remember, hearing things like that, how difficult it can be to be the Empress’s First Magician, especially when he doesn’t really get to _enjoy_ any of the status that brings him. As far as he’s concerned, he’s just confined to a slightly different set of rooms every day, and his sheets are changed slightly more often. “Stop talking about it, you’re going to make me run away with you.”

 

"… If it were still that nice, I'd have already kidnapped you," Sphintus wearily admits, laying his head down against Titus's shoulder. "The royal family hasn't been able to afford that sort of thing for years. I think I was 10, the last time my father actually had a harem worth speaking of." 

 

“Shame.” Titus buries his face, waving a fond farewell to the shimmer of that brief, fluttering dream. “If you ever want to see the kind of man my mother sleeps with, go to the prize ring on the most crowded day. She has a little game with Mu where he catches her and then fights the interloper to the death in front of a hundred thousand people.”

 

"… And here I thought your mother was a pacifist. All Magi are kind of batshit in a way, aren't they?"

 

“Oh, she never attends,” Titus says wearily. “She just likes the idea of it. And...well, I haven’t met Yunan since I was quite young, but I don’t exactly remember him being _normal_.”

 

Sphintus slowly shakes his head. "I'll just stick to magicians. You're high strung, but at least you're not missing a few pieces."

 

“Or have a few extra. Not really sure which is worse.” 

 

Titus worries at his lip, suddenly realizing something. “You know...if this works, I won’t have much of an excuse to sneak around with my Healer all the time. We’d better, well...make the best of it.”

 

Sphintus just _looks_ at him. "You say this as if I don't have experience in sneaking around to have sex. I mean, ah, unless your mother kicks me out, or something…" That would be stressful. "Look, anyway, I fully intend to keep enjoying your _company_. We'll figure something out."

 

“Well _I_ don’t. Besides…” It’s not _quite_ a plan, not yet, but the fact that Judal seems to think he can fix it… “If this works, I’m going to ask my Lady if I can personally escort you back to Heliohapt with your reward, as a guarantee against your safety. Diplomatic visit and all of that, it would be rude for her not to reciprocate and she _hates_ being rude most of the time.”

 

At that, Sphintus stiffens. "… I'm not so sure that's a good idea. Everything I told you about Heliohapt--that was in years past. It's really not somewhere you want to… visit… nowadays."

 

“You don’t have to be _embarrassed_ or anything, I’ve definitely seen worse in Magnoshutt,” Titus reminds him. “And I’d love to see where you come from. Anyway, that’s just _if_ we get the sense Lady Scheherezade is getting impatient with your presence.”

 

"Titus," Sphintus slowly, carefully begins, "if your mother gets 'impatient' with my presence, she'll probably just have me _executed_ or _imprisoned_. It has nothing to do with what my country _looks like_ right now. It's… you realize you're technically my enemy right now, don't you? My father sent me here to keep me safe, we didn't _know_ you were marrying a Kou princess. I--" He exhales, annoyed. "My efforts to _help you_ are going to be seen as pandering to the Kou Empire. Maybe it'll make them lighten up a bit on Heliohapt, I don't know. Maybe it'll make Sindria angry with us. Either way, I'm little more than a prisoner of war at this point, and your mother knows that better than anyone."

 

Titus’s jaw drops.

 

Stupid, that he’d never _thought_ of it, never even _considered_ that Sphintus is technically his enemy--all right, he’d realized that _Kougyoku_ and Sphintus were sort of at war, and he’d known that the marriage with her was to make some kind of alliance, but…

 

The more he thinks about it, the stupider he feels. “You’re _not_ a prisoner of war,” he says, half-hopeful, half-miserable. “I swear you can leave at any time, and I’ll protect you to my dying breath if anyone says otherwise.”

 

"… I am," Sphintus wryly says, "and there's not much use in denying it or fighting over it. My father sent a messenger the other day to tell me he'd get me out if necessary. I told him not to waste our men." _All what, three dozen of them?_ "Also, don't do something stupid like that. I mean, there are far worse places I could be, and I guess as long as your mother finds me tolerable enough, I'm fine."

 

Yet again, something’s been going around him that he’d never noticed, never bothered to ask about. It makes Titus sick, how many times that’s been the case. 

 

All he can do now is tighten his arms around Sphintus’s neck, pressing a slow kiss to the side of it. “Whatever happens, I’ll keep you safe. It’ll be all right.”

 

"Let's just… worry about you right now, okay?" Sphintus exhales, cupping Titus's face to pull him up into a soft kiss. "It'll be fine, one way or another." Maybe if he keeps telling himself that, it'll end up true.


	22. Chapter 22

Two days is too long.

 

 _One_ day was too long, sitting in the sweltering sun of Balbadd, thinking about all the things that could, can, probably are happening to the people he loves more than anything, let alone the lack of food and water and general annoyance of _not being able to scratch that damned itch_. He tries for a djinn equip, but there’s no damned _magoi_ on this fucking animal, turtle or shark or whatever it is, big enough to host a few villages and a very creditable jungle from what he can see by craning his head as far as possible.

 

Even knowing that he’d been alone for quite a while like this when Alibaba had gone to get food before doesn’t help when the sun goes down. Sinbad’s hardly afraid of the dark, but everything’s _different_ when he’s so utterly, frighteningly defenseless. _This is the last time_ , he vows, closing his eyes and trying to think of something, _anything_ to give him strength.

 

Ja’far will have everything handled, he’s sure of that. There’s no one better he’d rather have in charge, no one who can _handle_ all of it, and the thing that aches more than not being with him is knowing that he’s lost one of those earrings. He’ll get it back, even if he has to search all of Balbadd like this, stumps wriggling against each other as he rolls his way through the city. For that promise, he will, and never think it time wasted.

 

It’s easier to think to himself that Ja’far will have it _handled_ when he doesn’t remember how powerful Kouen was, far more than Sinbad had given him credit for, and Ja’far won’t even be able to call on his vessel.

 

The sun rises, and Alibaba still isn’t back.

 

_Damn it, worthless boy, where are you?_

 

The hunger is bad, the helplessness a thousand times worse, and there’s sand he can’t scratch. He reminds himself that he’s a king, he should be able to deal with this, but all that does is remind him that he wants his advisor, wants his magi to fix him, wants to be anywhere but here and with anyone but no one.

 

By the next sunset, Sinbad loses his patience.

 

I didn’t get to be the High King of the Seven Seas by waiting around for other people, he thinks grimly, and starts to rock back and forth.

 

It takes him all night, and well past sunrise to roll down to the beach, covered in bruises and gashes from rocks and vegetation he’d crashed into, little more than a helpless ball when it comes to steering himself, but the first lap of saltwater against the stump of one thigh is sweeter than anything he can remember, even as it stings. No matter that he has no idea how to get through the vast expanse of the ocean, that’s the kind of thing someone who isn’t a king would worry about. I’ll drink the water and piss it out in the direction I want to go, he thinks grimly. I’ll think of something.

 

The thought of what Ja’far would say makes him laugh hard enough that he chokes on saltwater.

 

Alibaba has to wonder about his luck sometimes.

 

Starting off, it seems like the _villages_ move around the island, too. Something about _following the energy of their land_ or something--Alibaba doesn't know, they barely speak the damn language, and it takes a good part of the whole day just to _find them_ again. 

 

He hates jungles. And snakes, he really, really hates snakes.

 

By the time he finds them again--was this island really _that_ big?--attempting to beg more food off of them _and_ a boat is apparently a laughable concept. 

 

And so trading with _skill_ \--the only thing he has at this point, honestly--is the ultimate end to that, and a good portion of his day is spent teaching the leader's son what he _does_ know about magoi (enough to not die, he's starting to miserably think, no matter his year spent in Laem). With that done, and finally hauling his wares back, his horrible luck rears its ugly head again. 

 

Sinbad is gone.

 

Panic sets in first and foremost, and Alibaba wonders if he got _eaten_ or worse, kidnapped by someone with some weird amputee fetish. Those exist, or so he's heard, mostly from the creepy stories Aladdin has brought back on more than one occasion. 

 

Shoving the rest of their things into a bag, he sets out to _find him_ , because he _knows_ no ships have left, and he couldn't have gotten far--

 

He supposes it's his _good_ fortune that leads him to the exact spot on the beach where Sinbad has rolled to, and Alibaba merely stares for a moment.

 

"So… I got the boat."

 

Ah, well. So much for bravery and pissing into the ocean.

 

Sinbad flops over on his back, chest heaving, raising an eyebrow up at Alibaba. Really, if they _do_ make it back to Sindria without him having murdered Alibaba first, he’ll stop and pay tribute to every single god he’s never believed in on the way, especially the ones that apparently give out patience. “Right. Into the boat, then. You’ve got some muscles still, I hope.”

 

Alibaba stares a moment longer before simply leaning down to grab the man and drag him out of the water. "You can eat while I row," he mutters, dragging Sinbad the short distance down the shore to the boat in question before heaving him into it. "Sorry it took me so long. They move around, so I had to find them again, and weren't so _generous_ so I had to spend a day talking about magoi through sign language or something and… ugh whatever, here." Sinbad is sort of frighteningly good at balancing a loaf of bread on his face and eating it, at the end of the day.

 

Sinbad swallows down a good half the bread in the first gulp, then uses his chin to flip the rest of it into a better position. All about gravity, when it comes down to it, even if the lurching of the boat under Alibaba’s “guidance” makes it a bit trickier. “At least you got the boat. You know how to tell which direction you’re going on the water, right?”

 

"I've steered a boat before, I can do _this_ part." _Thankfully_ , he isn't so weak as to not be able to row the damned thing--it's more the ocean's current, sharp and strong around the turtle-shark-whatever creature that they've been sitting on. "It's probably a bad idea to go straight to Balbadd's port--I'm going to take us further north on the coast. Takes longer, but we probably won't run into Kou soldiers there."

 

Sinbad wants to protest, but _really_ , he’s hardly in any shape to do anything but cheer Alibaba on, and if that doesn’t make him furious at himself and at the world, nothing does. “Right, then. Thank you. So. Here’s your chance, trapped in a rowboat with the mighty Sinbad. Ask me anything you want, advice, stories, anything.” At least he can make the poor boy’s day.

 

Any other day, and he'd probably be ecstatic. Right now, though, with sweat dripping down his back with each row, Alibaba can only stare at Sinbad, deadpan. "How many marriage proposals do you get weekly? What's it like, having women throw themselves at you?" He's not going to answer those sarcastically, is he. 

 

God dammit.

 

“Marriage proposals?” God, what is the boy, Ja’far?

 

No, best not to think about that. That sort of makes something ache in his chest. It’s been a long, long time since he wasn’t sure if Ja’far was _all right_ or not, and he doesn’t like it one bit. “Depends when you’re talking about. I certainly get a fair bit of _take me away from this place_ , but back when I first became High King I got about six or seven per week, mostly from young noblewomen or the princesses of small, impoverished countries. Now it’s down to maybe one or two, but they’re the mature ones, with land and titles of their own, and usually large countries under their power.” 

 

He grins, winking at Alibaba. “Most of the ones who aren’t princesses just offer it because they think it sounds _terribly_ romantic.”

 

Yeah, definitely not a sarcastic answer. Alibaba kinda feels like smacking himself in the face with an oar. "One of these days," he mutters over the splash of water, "I'll marry a girl. And have a huge harem or something. I don't know why you wouldn't want to, it sounds pretty nice to me."

 

“The harem part sounds great!” Sinbad agrees cheerfully. “I had one for a while, but it got to be a bit of a bother. Women impersonating each other, assassination attempts, jealousy all around. Eventually the taverns and brothels went to my advisors and asked them to abolish the whole concept to give all Sindrian women the same bite at the apple, as it were.” He shivers a little, inasmuch as he can. “The wife part, though...I just can’t quite feel that desire to forsake others just for the cause of an alliance. Seems selfish.”

 

"You should marry out of love, then," Alibaba says, as if it really is that simple. As far as he's concerned, it is, and he shoves aside a dozen worried thoughts of _whatever happened to her, anyway_ aside. "Even if it isn't the alliance everyone wants, at least you'd be happy… and you're _Sinbad_ , you could make it work somehow."

 

“Oh, sure I could, if I ever fell in love with someone like that.” _If I ever fell in love with someone I could marry, who would consent to marry me, that is._ “It doesn’t happen to everyone, you know. And even if you fall in love, who’s to say you’ll still be in love with the same person forever? I mean, where are you going to find someone who will stay by your side no matter what, and truly _mean_ that?”

 

This is more than he’s ever said when defending his choice to any of his generals. Maybe it’s the loneliness in him.

 

"I dunno," Alibaba sighs out, "I think I could stay in love with the same person forever. Especially if I _could_ find someone that loyal… that would actually stay. I guess it doesn't matter as much to someone like you," he laughs off with a shake of his head. "I mean, you've got women in spades, generals, armies, a country that everyone wants to be in--me, I'd be happy with even a handful of that right now, just to start with." 

 

“Right now,” Sinbad points out wryly, “I have a head and a torso and a single companion in a rowboat. Everything else is speculative. You’d be surprised how often you can pull things off if you can _expect_ that you will in advance.” Alibaba is a very lucky boy, getting all of this information for free. “All that about not counting your chickens before they hatch is nonsense. _Bet_ on them hatching, then use your winnings to buy more chickens. And if you lose, well, you only had dead chickens anyway.”

 

Alibaba opens his mouth to argue--but ugh, when has he ever been such a pessimist? 

 

 _Since everything I tried to do for my own country fell through, and it's all my fault_. 

 

A sigh, and he falls silent, shoving the oars back--forward--back--he better have even nicer muscles by the end of this--

 

At least, that's his thought until his feet feel oddly wet, and he glances down.

 

He sucks in his next breath a little too fast. "So… I bet on being able to row us back to Balbadd and now our boat has a leak. Does that make us the dead chickens?" 

 

Sinbad laughs. “Big leak? Can you patch it? Roll me over it, I’ll be your patch, I’m not doing anything else useful.” Even as he says it he feels a twitch of his own magoi back, now that they’re off the damned animal. Just a twitch, but better than nothing.

 

"Um--well, maybe not so big, so maybe--"

 

Even as he says that, a bubbling gush of water shoves up through the bottom of the boat, and Alibaba doesn't quite stifle a shriek in time. "Nope, it's big."

 

“Fine.” Sinbad clenches his teeth, weighing his options, pathetically few. There’s no more than a spark of magoi, and even though he tries to call on a djinn, _any_ djinn, nothing rises to him. _Ah well, swimming was my original plan._

 

“Strip off your outer robe,” he advises. “Breathe in a lot of air, you’ll at least float if you can’t swim, at least until you can figure it out.”

 

It’s probably sick of him to be enjoying this.

 

"I'm not good at floating either!" Alibaba tries not to sound hysterical. It's a little difficult, when the boat starts to _sag_ , and he scrambles to yank his clothes off and not _shift it around_ too much. This is not how he planned on dying. He still wants to get _married_ and have his damned _country back_ , for god's sake! 

 

The saltwater stings in all of Sinbad’s wounds, and he hastens to do as he’s advised, sucking in a deep breath until he bobs unceremoniously to the surface. Once there, he floats ungainly for a second; he’d never realized just how much he used his legs and arms for not only steering, but staying upright, and it takes less than five seconds until his “float” takes him upside down, breathing in nothing but water.

 

 _Shit_.

 

After all of these years, Alibaba would have _hoped_ to become a better swimmer. 

 

He's decent enough, he supposes, but not in the deep ocean with a harsh current, and _definitely_ not when he's sort of panicking over _what if something happens to Sinbad_. 

 

His gulp for air is more water than anything, all during his frantic grab for the bag of metal vessels Sinbad _can't_ quite wear right then. Swimming would be a good thing, he thinks, and for a moment, it sort of happens--until he feels a _tug_ on his ankle, and under the water he goes. 

 

There _are_ a dozen different monsters within Balbadd's seas, _aren't there._

 

Sinbad has already prepared four or five amusing and cutting things to say to Alibaba once the boy realizes how easy swimming is and turns him right-side up.

 

It’s a _damned_ shame that doesn’t happen.

 

Something brushes against his face--one of his vessels, he knows immediately, and floods his mouth with seawater attempting to grab it with his teeth. He manages, barely, choking and sputtering facedown, the panic setting in, and grabs at all the magoi he can.

 

There’s barely a spark.

 

 _Not good enough_ , he thinks grimly, and tries again. A spark is enough if he can blow it into a flame somehow, he convinces himself, grabbing at that tiny bit of magic, even as spots pop in front of his eyes from the lack of air. He starts to sink, making a last, desperate attempt.

 

Something in the corner of his vision _flares_ , and magoi courses through him, as much as he’s ever had, more than he can use, and the djinn equip rushes through his body, changing and muting it and _oh no of all the vessels I could have grabbed!_

 

At least there are working limbs again, enough to don the necklace and dive, easily outstripping the baby octopus clinging to Alibaba’s leg and grabbing the boy around the waist, shooting to the surface.

 

In the current form, the water’s roughness is no trouble at all, and it takes less than ten minutes before Sinbad gently deposits the unconscious Alibaba on the sands, giving his face a slap. “Hey. Did you swallow too much water? You won’t like what I’ll have to do to get it out.”

 

Alibaba chokes, coughs, rolling partially to the side to spit and hack up water, all as his vision slowly, hazily returns to him. 

 

He groans as he rolls back onto his back, blinking slowly, blearily upward. He doesn't recognize the voice, and ah, god, it doesn't sound like Sinbad, but he's too _tired_ to think about that, and going unconscious and nearly drowning is as _awful_ as he remembers it--

 

But oh.

 

The sight above him is--

 

Yeah, that's nice.

 

"… You can do whatever you want to me, miss," he breathes, and he wonders what he owes _this_ great luck to. Getting pulled from the ocean by a gorgeous woman? This is something out of one of Sinbad's books.

 

Sinbad blinks at that for a moment, and then remembers. “Ah. Right.” As the water recedes, the tail splits with an odd tingling, leaving him with two fully functional and entirely _shapely_ legs to go with the rest of the, ah, _shapely_. For some reason, the equip doesn’t seem to be draining his magoi nearly as fast as it should--in fact, it hardly is at _all_ , and hell, it’s got to be less recognizable than his actual body. Besides, this one has legs and arms. 

 

Decision made, Sinbad relaxes back onto his (her) hands, already entranced by the jiggle of the naked breasts attached to his chest. “Ja’far doesn’t like me to use this one, and it’s not as much good in battle as the others, but it _is_ still me. Can you stand?”

 

Alibaba's jaw drops, his face suddenly very, very red and he slowly rolls himself to the side, wondering if he can drown himself in a tidal pool. "Leave me here to die."

 

Sinbad considers it for a second, but not very seriously. “Come on, then, we’ve got a long way to go. Don’t make me carry you too, I want to run.” God, he’s never properly appreciated how _excellent_ it is to have arms and legs. Like this, no matter what form he’s in, he could easily take over the world. “Race you to Balbadd and a ship to Sindria!”

 

Only _he_ would be stuck traveling with a beautiful lady that _wasn't actually a beautiful lady_. 

 

Only he, Alibaba Saluja would. 

 

_I really hate my life._

 

“Cheer up,” Sinbad offers, giving Alibaba an affectionate slug on the shoulder. Amazing, how much better his life’s outlook is once he’s got four functioning limbs again, no matter that they’re shaped different than usual. “At least this way no one will recognize me. Er...that thing you did the first time we met, when you wrapped yourself up like a mummy? Do that again, that was a good disguise.”

 

Alibaba groans, but nevertheless _slowly_ hauls himself up, less inclined to bury his head in the sand now that he at least isn't… awkwardly aroused by a woman that is actually Sinbad, King of the Seven Seas. It's sort of hard to _look at him--_ her--oh god this is going to be bad--because _wow_ that's a nice rack and a nice body in general and shit shit shit shit it's really awkward again. "Okay. Great. Good to know." _Breathe._ "Did you get the rest of your metal vessels? Well, all six of them at any rate. I forgot to tell you earlier," he adds, wringing out his shirt before yanking it off to rip it. "I couldn't find your sword anywhere."

 

Sinbad waves the bag he’d rescued, then drapes the rest of the vessels over himself. He stretches languidly, enjoying the sight of his own body, the slender curves and supple _roundness_ far more than he should, and is abruptly reminded of why Ja’far doesn’t like him to use this one. “ _You never manage to focus on one thing for very long_ ,” he’d said, or at least Sinbad sort of remembers that. Mostly he remembers darting out to explore his new body with his hands in a mirror.

 

“I’ll find the sword,” he assures Alibaba. And then, because he’s alive and healthy and doing well, he adds, “You did very, very well. Thank you for saving me.”

 

"… Can I get you a cloak or something?" is all Alibaba manages as a retort. No matter if the equip lends Sinbad a _bit_ of clothing--as much as most full djinn equips do, which is to say, _very little_ \--it's still _distracting as hell_ and oh god _wow_ those boobs. 

 

What an ungrateful sot. _Fine, see if I thank you again for being so bloody useless._ “Is it distracting, do you think?” he asks, stretching again. “I wouldn’t want to draw too much attention, but I want to move fast. How fast do you run these days?”

 

"Fast," Alibaba manages, directing his gaze skyward. "And yes, it's… very distracting."

 

Sinbad gives him a good-natured slap upside the head. “Then keep your eyes forward, Saluja. And let’s see you run!” he adds, setting off quick as a dart down the sandy road.

 

Still hits like Sinbad.

 

 _But those boobs_.

 

Alibaba merely groans, wringing out at least one pant's leg before throwing himself forward after the man--woman-- _whatever_. Just when he thought things couldn't get any damn _weirder_ in his life.

 

According to every rule Sinbad has every known, or thought he’s known about magic and djinns, he should lose the equip after five or ten minutes at most.

 

By the time he makes it back to Balbadd proper, near sunset, it doesn’t feel like any more of a drain than before, and he’s torn between delight and confusion, and the certainty that whatever hell there is to pay later will be worth it.

 

The _plan_ is to stay in Balbadd just long enough to find his sword and his earring, and keep an ear pressed to the ground for news. Then, in a few days, a caravan to Sindria, trying not to be too conspicuous.

 

That lasts until Sinbad talks to the first servant, who says things about the White Ghost at Kouen’s side, and rumors of executions in Sindria.

 

His heart thuds sickly in his chest, and he turns, grabbing Alibaba by the shoulders. “You can stay if you can’t keep up, but I’m going to Sindria now.” No matter that it’s late and they’ve been running all day. He’ll run until he needs _new feet_ if he has to, this can’t be allowed.

 

Alibaba's _tired_ , but he's not that tired. Actually, he's sort of pleasantly surprised at how well he can keep up (has all of his training paid off for a change? doubtful, but what the hell, he'll take it). 

 

 _Still_. There's a limit to all things, or there should be. He's as surprised as Sinbad that he still has that equip in place by the time they make it to Balbadd and then some, but there's really no telling how long it'll last. "If that equip stops working and you're left like you were before, then what?" Alibaba points out, heaving a sigh. "Maybe I'm not _much_ , but there's no way in hell I'm leaving you now. And…" He swallows, making an idle, sweeping gesture with his arm. "It's not like there's much I can do here right now, anyway." Kou has seen to that-- _thoroughly._

 

Sinbad claps Alibaba on the shoulder. “Good man. I’ll make a general of you yet.” That’s about all the mirth he can manage before the worry sinks in, for his men, for his people, for Ja’far who seems to have drawn Kouen’s ire--and even the worry is less than the hate. 

 

_Kill me, will you? Take my country that I carved with my own two hands, will you?_

 

Sinbad’s feet pound the packed sand of Balbadd, shooting off towards Sindria.

 

_We’ll see, Kouen. We’ll see how this ends._

 

~~

 

The other generals don't try and avoid his gaze now. Now, they glare at him openly.

 

 _What did you tell them, Sharrkan?_ Ja'far tiredly wonders, still feeling the urge to scrub a night's worth of work from his eyes. _Three_ nights, really; the first spent going through every single last tax record with a fine tooth comb to total up the full amount needed to bring every single (remaining) citizen's payments current, the second sneaking to his own safes and pulling out that amount, and the third night and _day_ spent out and amongst the city under the guise of collecting it all, when in reality, spreading what was left of his coin to those worse impoverished so as to create the illusion of the economy slowly beginning to recover.  

 

It's enough to fool Kouen for now, at least, and the people are grateful enough to remain quiet about it. There are a number that are angry as well, of course, but Ja'far endures it as he does everything, and he'd rather entertain a Sindrian citizen's anger than Kouen's temper any day.

 

And anyway, he doesn't need to sleep. Not just yet.

 

He feels like a child on the streets again, scrounging up what he can as a weapon. The knife bound to his thigh is sharp enough--not honed like his own blades ever were, but in his hand, still more than enough to kill. Ja'far _wants_ Balalark Sei back, a longing nearly as strong as wanting Sinbad himself back, because that would help him _know_ that Sinbad is _alive_.

 

If the other generals know for sure, they certainly haven't told him a damned thing. 

 

Kouen bars him access to the armories, of course, and Drakon won't even entertain his presence long enough for Ja'far to ask him to help get inside. _There is a point,_ he angrily thinks _, at which a ruse becomes truth._

 

 _I don't need their help_. 

 

It's a bitter thing, reminding himself that, and anyway, he doubts Kouen would hide his weapon some place so _obvious_. Another day spent searching (under the guise of pushing paperwork) yields nothing, and Ja'far eventually gives up, half-flopping himself over Sinbad's old desk as he tries to _think_. 

 

_Kouen isn't smarter than I am. It has to be--_

 

Something makes him look up.

 

 _There_ , hanging above the doorway, an easy view from the desk Kouen sits at on a daily basis, is the Sword of Baal. There's a surge of relief and anger simultaneously that rakes through Ja'far--damn Kouen, _damn him_ and his arrogance and his _gall_ to display such a thing as a _trophy_. He's probably had it there since day one, and probably laughed every single moment that Ja'far didn't _realize_. It isn't his own weapon, but oh, to hell with it. It's _more_ than good enough.

 

Now, to get it _down._

 

Ah, what he wouldn't give for Masrur around to give him a boost. Scaling shelves is something he's used to by this point minus the man's help, but it isn't until he's about half-way up, foot jammed between half a dozen scrolls and an apology to them on his lips, that he actually _thinks_ past his desperate need to _touch it_.

 

If he takes it down, Kouen will _know_. 

 

But he needs it, anyway. A last, scramble upwards, and his fingers close around the hilt of it, the familiar _thrum_ of that power suddenly crackling through him enough to make him shudder. 

 

He's alive.

 

Sinbad is _alive_. Alive, somewhere, and oh, Ja'far wants to rip the sword from the wall and curl up with it pressed to his chest. Instead, there's that niggling realization that this still doesn't do him any good, and he slides half-way back down the shelves, his head slowly dropping forward to bang slowly into the scrolls and books in front of him, his vision wet and blurring. He's so tired. Tired and hungry and still half-way up a bookshelf like a spider and he just wants to lie down and sleep on a warm, solid chest for once, with arms around him and hands wrapped in his hair, never mind that he normally can't stand being touched in his sleep. 

 

_Sin, why can't you be here already?_

 

Sindria is _exhausting_. Kouen wants to wash the dirt of it from his feet--or better yet, have Hakuei wash the dirt from his feet. She’ll be less fat now, he thinks fondly, or at least she’d better be. Ah, he wants to be _there_ , wants to see that child’s face, wants to place a kiss on Hakuei’s hair and lock them both securely away so that no Ghost ever comes to visit them in the night, wants to be the guard on their chambers himself.

 

The latest missive is clutched in his hand, a two-line note in Hakuei’s hand with a tiny, smudged inkprint in the shape of five little fingers and a palm’s smudge when he opens the door to his office. 

 

He shuts the door behind himself, locking it and coming to stand over Ja’far, arms folded over his chest. “And what are you doing here? Don’t you have taxes to collect?”

 

Ja'far thinks he must have fallen asleep, dozing like an idiot beneath the comfort of Sinbad's continue existence with his face buried into the shelf, because he certainly doesn't hear Kouen enter and he starts hard enough to nearly tumble backwards into him. 

 

 _Maybe_ , he wearily thinks, _I should actually attempt to sleep tonight for five minutes._

 

"I was looking for an old record that I thought I had misplaced in here." An easy, bland enough lie. "And all of the tax collections are done, my lord." 

 

Kouen snorts in disbelief. “All of them, that you told me would take eight months to put into order? Either you were a liar then or you are one now.”

 

"Eight months for the economy to stabilize, I said nothing about how long it would take me to collect all of the appropriate taxes," Ja'far corrects on a sigh, nudging a scroll back into place on sheer habit alone, never mind how it keeps him from having to look at Kouen's face. "Please feel free to check your treasury, all of it is there along with the corresponding records on your desk."

 

“My men will do that.” Kouen has little tolerance for numbers on a page, except perhaps for troop accounts and movements. He sits in his desk chair, rubbing a thumb over Hakuei’s missive. He _should_ burn it, he really should. But….

 

“You’re well-behaved today. Given up on the fight, have you?”

 

_Where to begin? I haven't slept and I could use a meal and all of my allies turn their noses up at me._

 

"You seem to be in a good mood yourself, my lord," Ja'far notes, turning away from the shelf. "Another message from home?" 

 

_No, I haven't given up, you piece of shit._

 

Yes, he should definitely burn it. No matter the little smudges; he can always get the child to wipe a messy hand on something once he finally gets _home_. 

 

Kouen crumples the missive, moving to the fire, at the last second changing and stuffing it into his pocket. “If I were you and I valued my skin, I’d pick another line of questioning.”

 

Ja'far's eyes lid, bored already with Kouen's quick temper. He doesn't need to do this tonight. He needs to rest, and plan for the next day or so to better pull the rug out from underneath this man's feet until Sinbad returns. 

 

_God willing, I will have his head on a stake for when you return, Sin._

 

"Then if there is nothing else you require of me, I will leave you to your work." 

 

“Seen the wisdom of your friends, have you?” Kouen can’t resist asking. “If you all keep behaving yourselves, I might make room for you in the governance of Sindria after all.” He leans back, smirking. “Probably not. You, of course, I’ll take back to Kou with me.”

 

Really, Kouen shouldn't blame him for how sharp his tongue is--not when he honestly does a good job of biting it back, only to be _provoked_ like this. "And here I was certain you found my presence absolutely deplorable. Pray tell, what would you have me do in Kou? Do you lack such efficient bookkeepers there?"

 

Kouen’s smile widens. “Nothing so useful. I did tell you, that you were better served as an ornament. In lieu of Sindria’s king, you will serve as a trophy.”

 

Ah, well. Rolling his eyes will be least of his offenses, in the long run. "Lovely. Oh how I look forward to the day that I shall be looked upon as some rare conquest from Sindria, one not even fit to be thrown to your soldiers due to the nature of my appearance."

 

“Not to worry, you still might,” Kouen says, a consoling smirk. “At the end of a war, the highest-ranked monarch left alive is paraded, then executed. The people will vote on the manner of it; oil seems to be quite popular lately, but death by rape or bleeding isn’t unheard of.”

 

"How pleasant," Ja'far deadpans. "A good thing for you, then, my lord, that the end of the war is such a distance away." 

 

Kouen opens his mouth, then shuts it.

 

He _hates_ Ja’far.

 

“That hungry for more punishment, are you?” he asks, trying to keep his voice calm though the rage boils up in him. “Come here.”

 

 _You brought this on yourself_ , Ja'far says far more to Kouen than to his own person. _Honestly_ , he had just wanted to go to sleep, but now _this_ \--

 

There's no fighting it to that degree, really, and Ja'far's stomach twists as he takes a weary step forward. He has a blade on his person this time, at least. Maybe he's fast enough to make the man bleed out onto the office floor.

 

Kouen surveys Ja’far, slowly, up and down. “I wonder which you would hate more,” he muses. “To be taken hard over the desk and reminded what your proper place is with pain?” He reaches out, rubbing his thumb over Ja’far’s lips. Like poking a viper, really, seeing how soft those scales really are. “Or would you hate it more if I took you with gentleness? Strip.”

 

 _There's little difference, really,_ Ja'far notes as he bothers considering it for the sparest of moments. _It's you, so both are equally disgusting._  

 

He'll never understand the use of sex in power games or manipulation. Even now, when it takes everything in his power not to bite Kouen's thumb off, he still doesn't understand it. All it serves to do is make his skin crawl, to make him _hate_ this man all the more, and if that is the point, then that is the _stupidest_ thing a person can do to him. 

 

Then again, he isn't most people. 

 

More annoying, Ja'far knows, is the fact he'll need to find another blade later. _It will be far more difficult the time_ , Ja'ar thinks as he lifts a shaky hand, pulling the fastenings of his robes until they loosen and slink their way down with a shrug of his shoulders, pooling at his feet. 

 

Kouen raises his eyebrows, more than a little intrigued, and if he wasn’t quite in the mood yet, he certainly is now. He runs a hand up the inside of one thigh, covering that knife with his hand. “A little desperate, are we? Hmm, what a...ah…” 

 

He discards the knife easily, squeezing that thigh, eyes dark. “As nice as a woman’s, surely. Come sit on my lap.”

 

Ja'far _hates_ that comparison, more than ever.

 

Refusal is on the tip of his tongue, with every muscle tight and tense in rebellion. It's a dozen times worse now, in a way, knowing one of Sinbad's metal vessels is within this room. _Please don't think your conquerer's first and most loyal subject so very weak for this._

 

 _Please don't somehow let him_ know.

 

Ja'far shuts his eyes briefly, sucking in a short, steadying breath before he slinks forward to do as he's told, no matter how the idea of actually _touching_ Kouen makes him flinch. A knee set upon the chair is a start. Kouen's scent in his nose, spice and wine and smoke, makes his stomach churn. 

 

Never mind, that he understands the _use_ of this now.

 

Kouen laughs, lifting Ja’far easily and turning him around. “Not like that, idiot slut. I don’t want to look at your face.”

 

He frees his cock, dragging up the inside of a smooth thigh, and holds Ja’far’s wrists down to the arms of his chair. It feels good to look up at the sword of Baal when he does. _Look, what I have made your favorite into. Enjoy the sight from hell, Sinbad._ “Did he use you like a woman? Filthy thing to do, squeeze your legs together.”

 

Ja'far's teeth clench, tension keeping his back too-straight, his fingers curling and white-knuckled from the sheer urge to twist and elbow Kouen in the face. It's almost _easier_ , being on his knees. He doesn't have the chance to think about how disgustingly similar Kouen feels with his chest pressed into his back, though Sinbad would never say any part of this was filthy, and he'd _lament_ a chance to look at his face--

 

His lip trembles as he bites down into it, his legs quivering as he slides them closer together, and toes curl in sharp, stark disgust when his thighs touch, squeezing around Kouen's cock. 

 

“Good,” Kouen breathes, thrusting up between those soft, supple thighs. “Good, you feel good like that.” 

 

He goes _gently_ , ignoring his natural predilections for the moment, enjoying the softness, the _squeeze_ of it. “It doesn’t have to end like that for you,” he pants, hips canting up. “I can have one of your traitor generals executed, bring you back to my palace to live as my pet.”

 

The thought is enough to make him nearly dry heave on the spot. _I'd rather be burnt alive_ almost escapes his tongue, only to be bitten back with a strangled noise in his throat. Ja'far makes the mistake, then, of bowing his head, eyes open still, and the sight of Kouen's cock thrusting up between his legs, so hard that he's leaking, makes Ja'far shudder hard. 

 

"I will _never_ ," he manages to lowly choke out, "be your _pet_." 

 

That bit of defiance makes Kouen so, _so_ much harder. He squeezes Ja’far’s thighs tighter around him, humping up urgently, leaving all kinds of bruises and loving the idea. “You already are,” he breathes. “You sit on my lap when you’re bid. You got on your knees and drank from my cock, what more do you think you have left to hold back?”

 

The laughter that comes out is cruel, mocking, even as he thrusts faster and faster, yanking Ja’far down. “I should outfit you like a proper pet, wearing nothing but a collar. Maybe I should put a tail on you as well, hmm? Did you like it when your king buggered you like a sod?”

 

Ja'far has never hated someone so much in his entire life.

 

"Go to hell," he grinds out, jaw aching from how tightly his teeth clench. Every thrust and shove of Kouen's cock only serves to make him shake harder, to make him simply want to give in right then and there and scramble for that knife again and shove it into his own neck faster than anything. _Next time_ , he vows, because oh, he knows there will be a next time, no matter how it makes him tremble to think of it, _I'll kill you before you can even ask for this, you son of a bitch._

 

He slides a hand mindlessly back, digging it into the chair for some sort of balance, knowing he'll break his nails off in an attempt to mitigate some of the tension. It ends up fisting into cloth, all fine silks of Kou, and for a moment, Ja'far wants to be sick about that as well, until he _thinks_. 

 

It doesn't take much effort, when Kouen's mind is thoroughly _elsewhere,_ to delve into a pocket, and ball his fist around a little scrap of paper after the fact. 

 

Kouen notices nothing, sees nothing, feels nothing but the _squeeze_ of Ja’far around him, tight and slick with his own fluids, and slams up _hard_ , fingers digging in so tight he’s going to tear a muscle, give Ja’far bone bruises--at least he _hopes_ he does--as he comes, spilling over those pretty thighs as he shudders, panting hard in the man’s ear. “On the contrary,” he rasps, and licks a long stripe up the side of Ja’far’s neck. “This is more like heaven than anything I can think of.”

 

Ja'far's heart thuds so hard in his chest that he thinks it might burst. 

 

He can't even think to be sick, not _now_ , no matter how he knows he will later, when the high of any possible success dies down. Ah, no, there it is already--that urge to be violently ill at the _thought_ of how he has this man's seed on his skin, his mouth on his neck and bruises caused by his hand already purpling his flesh. Still. His fingers curl tighter, his other hand doing the same so as to not draw undue attention to one of them, and Ja'far shudders hard, swallowing in an attempt to settle his stomach as much as steel his voice. 

 

"If you're quite finished, my lord." 

 

Sated, Kouen finds himself in a far better mood. He shoves Ja’far off of his lap, reaching for a cloth to wipe himself up. “Go on, then. Wear something short to dinner, I want to see your legs. Until then, you can have the day to yourself, as long as you don’t leave the palace.”

 

Trembling, Ja'far hastily scoops up his clothing, yanking it back into place as quickly as he ever has. A bath. A scalding one, one that might burn off his flesh if isn't careful.

 

But first, that _letter_. 

 

He doesn't bother deigning any of that with a response--he merely leaves as quickly as he can, _sure_ that Kouen is laughing at him, thinking he has him terrified and _broken_.

 

Some distance down the hall, when he finally dares to uncrumple the missive in his grasp, to look at it while his back flattens against a wall--and he wishes he could blend into it as easily as he _used_ to be able to, damn Kou and their taste for reds and _colors_ in general--success, wild and sharp, drains him of any weariness that he thought he previously felt. 

 

It makes _sense_ , and oh, is he grateful for that.

 

~~

 

Judal is a heavy sleeper.

 

It's a blessing and a curse, or so he's been told, and it's something that Ja'far tried to break him of a dozen times before giving up (thank god). In the early, _early_ hours of the morning, though, Judal finds himself abruptly roused from sleep, his head _throbbing_. 

 

 _The hell?_ No amount of sleepily, self-applied remedies do a thing, and it's with a groan that he realizes what it is. A djinn equip, perhaps one Sinbad grabbed too hastily or sloppily for? No--it's too steady of a pull on his magoi for that. Maybe it's something weird, like how Vinea has been so, _so_ happy to see him, creating literal oceans in the air simply because he's _near_. 

 

 _If it's that water djinn I raised for him,_ Judal tiredly thinks, _then that's definitely it._ Not something he's experienced before, but there's always something new when it comes to magic, and Judal doesn't think much of it.

 

_It'll go away soon enough._

 

Fifteen minutes pass, and that's far too long. Huffing out a breath, he rolls to the side, burying his face into Aladdin's shoulder and biting down gently. Aladdin is lucky. At least his king doesn't make such heavy demands on him even from this distance.

 

Aladdin squirms in his sleep, mouth curving into a relaxed, happy smile as his eyes flutter open. He’s _not_ a heavy sleeper, least of all when someone’s chewing on him, and he stretches out, reaching his arms up then letting them wrap around Judal’s shoulders. “Hi. Morning.”

 

"Headache," Judal greets with in a rather huffy grumble, and he wriggles closer, burying himself in the other man's warmth, and the easy, languid fluttering of his rukh most of all. "Make it stop."

 

Aladdin starts to say something about how he’s not a famous healer like Judal, or Sphintus, but, well, when has he ever needed something like that to make Judal feel better? He buries his hands in Judal’s hair, scratching and rubbing gently, in all the places he knows Judal likes. “That help?”

 

"Yes," is the sigh soon to follow, and Judal's eyes flutter as he rolls, a leg promptly slung over Aladdin's hips as he nudges his head forward and into Aladdin's touch. "Stupid king is doing something weird," he mumbles, flopping down on top of Aladdin. "Keeps using _my_ magoi. It feels like… ugh. A bug, or something, constantly crawling up and down my back." 

 

 _I wish my king tried to use my magoi. Or his own. Or anything._ Aladdin scratches and rubs, then tugs Judal down for a kiss, sweet and soft. He extends his will, and a swirl of rukh covers Judal, fluttering and whirling. “If that can’t distract you,” he offers, “maybe I can.”

 

The sound that leaves Judal's throat is more purr than anything else, and even if the flutter and slide of Aladdin's rukh against him is _more_ than enough of a distraction, he's fully content to lie. "Like it when you distract me," he murmurs, burying his face into Aladdin's neck to nibble once more, his fingers sliding back through the other man's hair. 

 

Aladdin almost suggests that they call Kougyoku in here to watch, but no, Judal had said that she was resting, and the longer she rested, the better for the magic he was _sure_ would take. 

 

Besides, as much as he adores Kougyoku, it _has_ been a while. “I kinda missed having you to myself,” he admits.

 

"Kougyoku's a little high maintenance, anyway," Judal sighs out, rolling slowly to the side and dragging Aladdin on top of him in the process. The _weight_ of him is nice, what with how warm and solid he is, and Judal arches up, headache a rather easily forgotten thing when his thighs slide to cradle Aladdin's hips. "Fun once in awhile… mmn, but she drives me crazy when she gets whiny and clingy." 

 

Aladdin grins, wriggling around until he’s properly lying in the dip between Judal’s thighs, pressing down warm and hard against him. Well, not quite _hard_ yet, but with Judal acting like an affectionate cat, it never takes long. “She’s lovely, but it’s just...really nice with you. _Always_ nice with you.”

 

Even if Judal doesn’t (and probably never will) have breasts, he smells good, feels good, and he’s _Judal_ besides.

 

"… Don't like sharing you that much, anyway," Judal admits, and he tugs and pulls on Aladdin's hair, dragging his mouth to his throat. He wriggles, lazily squirming up with a breathy sigh. "Though watching you with a woman… is nicer than I expected." He sort of understands it now, why Sinbad gets off on watching him do the same. 

 

“It’s different,” Aladdin agrees, voice muffled in Judal’s neck, and he spends a few lazy minutes nipping, sucking and nibbling. “She sure likes watching us together. And I liked watching you with Sinbad, that one time.” He runs his hands down Judal’s sides, then up to start playing with his chest.

 

 _That_ memory makes his cock twitch. "I'd go back to Sindria for that again," Judal says with a groan, sinking back with a heavy breath, his rukh a far sharper, all the more eager press against Aladdin's. "Having both of you like that… god," he shudders.

 

Aladdin leans up to fit his mouth against Judal’s ear, sucking the lobe in slowly, then murmuring, “I couldn’t believe you took all that. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone in my life that loves cock as much as you do.” He’s definitely hard now, rocking down slowly against Judal’s hips.

 

The sound that leaves his throat is something like a whine, high and breathy as his fingers drag down Aladdin's spine, nails raking softly against his skin. "Love yours the most," Judal mumbles as he buries his face into Aladdin's neck, breath hitching with every slide and grind of their hips. "Ahh… god, tell me how good I look, when you're fucking me." There's _something_ about Aladdin's voice that leaves him shivery and useless, every damn time.

 

Aladdin grins against Judal’s skin, hands giving Judal’s nipples a pinch before trailing down, urging his thighs wider apart. “When I’m inside you,” he breathes, nibbling on a bit of neck, “you look like you can’t believe someone gave you so much. Then you start wiggling, and you look so pretty I just want to shove it in you again and again to make you look like that more.”

 

His hands wander up, sliding to palm over Judal’s cock, petting and stroking. “And then you start making _noise_.”

 

At that, Judal _mewls_ , his hips twitching up on their own accord. He's already so hard just at the _thought_ of Aladdin inside of him that his hand is just shy of too much, leaving him to pant and huff, toes curling as his thighs eagerly splay apart. "Really… really want you in me," he pleads, one hand clumsily reaching down to grab for Aladdin's cock. "I want you to make me _scream_. You always feel so _good_ \--so long and thick and _god_ just put it _in_ already--" He's all but whining, breathy and desperate, and _fuck_ where did the oil get to, he needs Aladdin between his thighs more than _anything_. 

 

“Oh.” Aladdin’s eyes sparkle, and he rolls his hips forward, the head of his cock dragging up and over Judal’s hole, three or four times to try and make him _desperate_. “You started making noises early this time, that must mean you _really_ want it in you.”

 

He knows it’s mean, but Judal is so much _fun_ to tease. “Be good for me, you know you like it better if I make you wait and beg for it,” he murmurs, reaching out a hand and dipping his fingers into the oil, rubbing them slowly over the cleft of Judal’s ass.

 

"Not fair," is the whisper Judal somehow manages, eyes fluttering as he sags back with a mindless little shudder, swallowing visibly as he lets his head loll back. God, but Aladdin is right. There's little better than being _teased_ by him, left to writhe and beg while wanting so, so badly. It makes it that much more satisfying when Aladdin's finally fucking him and just _thinking_ about it makes him squirm. "Don't make me wait too long," he pants out. "I need you."

 

“You’re pretty when you need me,” Aladdin says, low and urgent and _hungry_. Judal looks like a goddess of lust like this, all flushed cheeks and heaving chest and splayed thighs, and Aladdin wants little more than to fill him, over and over until he’s screaming, until he’s sobbing with how full he is.

 

He slides in a single finger. “Is that enough?”

 

 _You_ know _it isn't._ Judal's eyes roll back as his hips jerk, grinding against Aladdin's hand, against that slick slide of a finger that is nowhere _near_ enough. "No… n-no, _please_ , I--"

 

“No?” Aladdin asks, almost innocently-- _almost_. He slides in another, twisting, curling them, spreading them to stretch Judal out. “How about this? Is that enough to fill you up and make you scream?”

 

Judal's chest heaves, his next breath little more than a hitching whine. " _No_ \--god, only you are, so _please_ \--" He _aches_. His thighs tremble, spreading wider as a dozen pleas escape as little more than whimpers, and every slide and stretch and curl of Aladdin's fingers just makes his cock throb, no matter how it's still not _enough_. 

 

“I want you to have _enough_ ,” Aladdin says earnestly, and slides in another finger, then another too fast, and ah, he’s losing control before he’s even inside. There’s something about the way Judal looks, and Aladdin murmurs, “You look so pretty like this, when you need my cock. That’s a _lot_ of fingers, though, maybe it’s enough…”

 

Oh, god.

 

It feels _good_ , far too good, being stretched out like this, spread around Aladdin's fingers and left to moan as he rocks down against him, slowly riding against his hand. Judal's brow knits as he bites into his lower lip, eyes fluttering with each shiver that rakes of his spine and at this rate, it _will_ be enough. 

 

"Can you…" Aladdin has _nice_ fingers, long and slender and they feel so _nice_ when they twist inside of him. "I… just a little more--" He's going to come before Aladdin's cock even slides into him, but as of now, Judal doesn't _care_.

 

In a lot of ways, it’s just as much fun to do this as it is to shove his cock into Judal. This way, he can _watch_ the expressions on Judal’s face, watch him looking confused, lost, uncomfortable, _full_ , and loving every second of it, begging for more. 

 

Aladdin thrusts his fingers in and out, curling, spreading, and leans down, curious, to lick a stripe up the underside of Judal’s cock. It’s not anything he’s particularly _drawn_ to, but Judal does always taste good...

 

Judal cries out, hips jerking before he can stop himself. _Next time,_ he dazedly thinks, all but twisting onto his side as he buries his face into a pillow, moaning and writhing down onto Aladdin's hand, _I'll beg him to put his whole hand in._

 

If he can even think to that point--questionable, when just this is enough, when the thought of even asking Aladdin to do that makes him gasp and buck and spasm, long, sharp tremors raking down his legs as he comes, spilling hot and messy over his own stomach with his voice breaking into heaving, ragged little sobs. 

 

Aladdin beams, placing a few kisses on Judal’s hip and the clean part of his belly, gently easing his fingers out. “I think you missed me,” he teases, “Even though I’ve been right here.” He’s still hard, but that’s hardly an issue. He’s spent a few consecutive years that way when he was younger, a few hours or days is _nothing_.

 

"You're not fair," is the hazy, infinitely _pleased_ rasp to follow. Judal groans, splaying himself out, a foot stretching out as he tries, shakily, to wind a leg around Aladdin's waist and draw him in. "You can still fuck me," he sighs out, shivering with the words. "Feels good, and you spent all that time getting me _ready_ …"

 

Aladdin wriggles up eagerly between Judal’s thighs, rubbing the head of his cock over the slick, stretched entrance, and god, it feels _different_ after he spent all that time. It makes him wonder how far Judal could stretch, what he could _take_ , and even wondering that much makes him press forward, stretching Judal out around the head of his cock. “Okay,” he says, a little shakily, and slides in slowly as he leans down for a deep kiss.

 

Judal sucks in a sharp breath, his mouth falling open at how it feels to have Aladdin sink into him, even after all of that. It's far _different_ than just fingers--so much harder, so much _longer_ , and he can't help but groan, arching up no matter how spent he is, how he shivers and trembles from the effort as he pants into Aladdin's mouth. "Really good," is Judal's breathless praise, and he squirms, sliding his thighs down tight around the other man's hips. "Just… god, _use me_ , I'm yours--"

 

Right now that’s about all Aladdin _can_ do--now that he’s in, he’s urgent, sliding in _hard_ , as deep as he can go, one hand coming to push down on Judal’s abdomen to feel it tense and _work_ to take all of him. “You want the whole thing, right?” he breathes, eyes alight as he thrusts harder and harder, hips slapping down against Judal’s. “You can take it all because you want it so bad, right? Ah, you look so pretty when you’re full of my cock.”

 

Aladdin knows him too well.

 

So well, that his body desperately twitches, his cock already wanting to stir no matter how oversensitive and used he already feels. Judal can do little but nod helplessly, sinking back with a shuddering, hitching whine, his eyes fluttering and his face hot as every long, deep thrust is enough to make his breath hiccup, enough to make him ache and writhe and lurch up with a gasp. "All of you," he mindlessly agrees. "Want all of it. Every inch, I--" Judal swallows, gulping as Aladdin's hips slap against him, so hard, so _deep_ inside of him that his eyes glaze. "J-just… just like that…"

 

Judal makes Aladdin want to give him _more_. 

 

He takes cock so _well_ , like he’s hungry for it, and Aladdin loves too much the way Judal _squeezes_ around him with every deep, rough thrust. He bites Judals’ neck, sucking hard, then murmurs, “You’ll like this, I’m going to fill you up so full….”

 

The cry he lets out is stifled into Judal’s shoulder when he comes, hard and long and _shuddering_ , slamming in as deep as he can go and _holding_ there.

 

Judal groans, tightening his legs around Aladdin's waist to _keep_ him close, his eyes squeezing shut at the sensation of being so utterly stuffed full and now oddly, messily slick on top of that. "Don't… don't pull out just yet," he whispers, splaying his hands against Aladdin's back as he drags him down, his face half-burying into his shoulder. "Feels too good."

 

Aladdin smiles, burrowing into Judal’s neck, placing a kiss on top of one of the sucking bites he’s left. Judal feels _good_ inside, always does, and there’s something entirely enticing about just being _in_ him. “I’ll stay here as long as you want me,” he promises, and his cock twitches slightly inside Judal. “No one feels better than you, inside or out.”

 

"We could just do this all day," Judal mumbles, stroking a finger down Aladdin's spine, counting vertebrae as he goes. "There's no one around to tell us otherwise, anyway." And that headache is a thing of the past--easy enough to ignore, when he's surrounded by Aladdin's rukh.

 

“I wouldn’t mind.” Aladdin closes his eyes, settling in on top of Judal’s body, inhaling the nice after-sex smell of his skin. “Mm, you always smell the best after we do this.”

 

The door opens loudly, revealing Scheherezade, Magi of Laem, clutching at her head and looking _annoyed_. “You two,” she says icily, “ _stop that_. You’re ruining _everything_.”

 

Judal is half-tempted to pull a Ja'far and attempt to be a spitting cobra. "Go away," he grumbles instead of telling her to _fuck off,_ no matter how he glares at her from over Aladdin's shoulder. See, he's gotten nicer! "We're not doing anything to bother you."

 

Aladdin blinks at Titus, then realizes it’s _not_ Titus, it’s Scheherezade, and from what he’s heard that’s a _lot_ more dangerous. “Um,” he says, though it’s far from his first time having an important first meeting with his cock buried in someone, “hello, I’m Aladdin, we came to--”

 

“I know exactly who you are. And if you two don’t stop _immediately_ , I will--can’t you _feel_ what the rukh does, whenever you’re together? Judal, I thought you at least had _some_ grasp of magic.”

 

"I know what it does." The comment goes straight to his ego-- _just as she intended_ , without a doubt--and Judal scowls, glare darkening. "So it gets a little hyper. It's fine, just--go somewhere else for awhile, we're enjoying ourselves and I had a headache so this is helping," he mutters, lifting a hand to wave it as if shooing a dog, the other going to Aladdin's braid to keep him from getting up. 

 

Aladdin has no intention of getting up; in fact, he snuggles down more on top of Judal, muttering, “We did this all the time in Balbadd, no one cared.”

 

“Then go back there. Or to Sindria, or Heliohapt, or the ends of the bloody earth. Just...get _out of Laem_.” Her gaze is steely, frozen over. “You have until tomorrow morning.”

 

"Ungrateful bitch." So much for being nice, now Judal's just annoyed. "If you weren't so frigid, maybe you'd get some once in awhile and have this much fun and not be so _jealous_."

 

By the time Aladdin blinks, Scheherezade is gone, a chill wind blowing through the room as the door slams. Aladdin wriggles up onto Judal’s chest, frowning. “Should we go soon? I mean, you got to see Kougyoku, and you fixed Titus and everything.”

 

"… To _where_ , though?" Judal sighs, sprawling back out with a grumble. "I don't want to go back to Sindria just yet. Balbadd either. Last I heard, Heliohapt's a mess… ugh, nowhere is good."

 

Aladdin frowns. “I don’t like it when you look sad like that. We’ll find somewhere fun! Um...where haven’t you been yet? Let’s go there!”

 

"Cold places, mostly. Well, I went waaaay up north, once, on a Kou campaign, but…" Judal's nose wrinkles immediately. "Not sure I like the cold when it's _everywhere_."

 

Aladdin makes a face. “Ja’far told me about those places once. He said the people weren’t very nice and it rained ice all the time.” He feels a pang of unease at the mention of Ja’far, though he doesn’t know _why_. “Um...have you ever been to the Dark Continent? I’ve been meaning to go there for a while.”

 

"Oh, snow, you mean. Snow is fun. It's really soft and fluffy and even if it's cold, you can make stuff with it and throw it at people…" Judal trails off, shoving thoughts of how he had done that very thing to Kouen on a dozen different occasions on the campaign in question. "Anyway, no, I've never been there. I guess we can go there next… _no one_ really goes there, though, so I can't imagine it being that fun."

 

“But that’s where my friend Mor went, and she’s way too cool to die or stay with uncool people, so it has to be at least a _little_ fun,” Aladdin reasons. “And I don’t really want to get Titus or Kougyoku in trouble by staying.”

 

"… Yeah, I guess." Judal sighs, letting his head tip to the side. "I don't want to leave by tomorrow morning, though. I want to at least make sure she's pregnant, so she doesn't get in trouble. I should be able to tell in another day or so." 

 

Aladdin nibbles up the edge of Judal’s chin, hands coming to slide down his sides. “I’m sure that’ll be fine. I’m _very_ convincing when I want to be!”

 

"You are," is the swift agreement and purr to follow. "So I'll try to keep my mouth shut and let you sweet-talk her instead. She reeeeally doesn't like me. Never has, I don't get it."

 

“Don’t worry, I can handle that kind of thing,” Aladdin assures him. “Um, it’s _definitely_ Titus’s kid, right? Laem is kind of weird, but I don’t want it to get torn apart by Kou or anything.”

 

"Well, I certainly didn't put it in her," Judal grumbles, still annoyed that he didn't get a chance to. "So unless _you_ did, there's nothing to worry about. It can't be anyone else's." 

 

“Okay, good.” Aladdin places a consoling little kiss on Judal’s cheek. “Next time we visit Laem, you can put it in her. Oh, or we could invite her back to Sindria with us! You know, after the baby or whatever!”

 

Maybe, in nine months, he'll actually want to go back to Sindria. "Yeah," Judal agrees on a sigh. "That sounds good. But you can make nice with Scheherazade later, you're staying here with me for now." 

 

Aladdin makes a happy little noise. “You’re the best pillow. And you smell the best too. And you make cute breathing noises when you sleep.”

 

"Flattery gets you everywhere," Judal happily returns, winding his arms tightly around Aladdin. _Really_ , Scheherazade can get over it. If she had been nicer, maybe he would have asked her to join in--but now, no way.

 

 

~~

 

Aladdin _is_ good at making people do what he wants, Judal will give him that. He deliberately avoids Scheherazade when Aladdin goes to speak to her, and it's a good thing, probably, because when Aladdin returns, they have a few more days to spend in Laem, should they want them. 

 

The headache is still there, well into the second day, and Judal just tries not to think about it. He's hungry all the time--more so than before, mind--but it's not debilitating. He thinks about asking Aladdin if this has ever happened to him, even though he _knows_ it hasn't. It just _has_ to be that water djinn of Sinbad's, no matter how strange it is that Sinbad needs _him_ to call upon her. 

 

Whatever.

 

The most annoying thing are that sometimes, the headaches still wake him up in the middle of night. He doesn't exactly want to chew on Aladdin each time, and so slipping outside lest he toss and turn and make both of them miserable is the only option. Laem nights are pleasant, at least, and no one really bothers him, even if he's just _sleepy_ and wants to got to bed…

 

"--a damn good thing the princess is finally pregnant. Having Kou rain down on Laem, like they are in Sindria--"

 

"It'd be different, here. Lady Scheherazade wouldn't let that happen."

 

Judal's interest is piqued immediately, and it's impossible not to stay and eavesdrop on the guards' conversation for a moment longer. "Ever since those shields came down, the Emperor has just completely laid waste to the city. Can you _imagine_ \--"

 

"Goes to show you can't build a place like that on any one man. Ever since Sinbad died--"

 

_But he isn't dead._

 

Panic spikes white-hot down Judal's spine, and he wonders, for a moment, if he's _wrong_. No. He can't be. He's a _Magi_ , Sinbad's Magi, and he'd _know_. But the fact that everyone thinks he's dead, that Sindria apparently is at war and Kouen is _there_ \--

 

Dread settles into his stomach, dark and twisting and nauseating. 

 

_It's my fault. It's my fault, it's all my fault._

 

There's no way around it. He's the one that killed Kouen's brothers, he's the one that wanted to leave. If they think Sinbad is dead, there's a good chance he was heavily wounded, so no _wonder_ he'd need to pull directly on his magoi instead. 

 

He needs to get back.

 

First and foremost, no matter where Sinbad is, he needs to get _back to Sindria_. He needs to kill Kouen, or at least _stop him_ somehow. Judal doesn't think past sneaking back into the room, snatching up the heap of Aladdin's turban, and leaping out the window as it unfolds into a carpet. _You can't come with me. You can't, this isn't something you should be involved in._

 

It makes him sick, to think that he probably made the situation in Balbadd a dozen times worse, too. 

 

Traveling is a blur, and no matter how fast he goes, it just isn't fast enough. Just as the guards said, though, his shields are gone, and he can tell that as soon as he's within a mile or two of Sindria, his heart leaping into his throat when he finally arrives just as the sun starts to set. Sinbad _isn't_ here, he can feel that much. He'd hoped, to no avail. 

 

_But Kouen is._

 

The way the man's djinn _thrum_ makes it obvious, and Judal quickly clamps down on his own magic, trying to make himself as invisible as possible. A repeat of Balbadd he doesn't want, though he isn't sure how capable of _hiding_ he is for very long. 

 

Ja'far. _Ja'far_ has to be here, if he can find him, then maybe, just maybe… 

 

His landing onto the alcove outside of Ja'far's bedroom window is a little shaky, his head spinning from the too-fast flight and the drain already on his magoi, courtesy of whatever it is Sinbad is _doing_. The carpet furls itself back up, and Judal slowly, carefully pokes his head through the window.

 

A hand fisted into his braid to yank him inside, and something sharp and pointy at his throat nearly makes him shriek, if not for the hand abruptly clamped over his mouth. 

 

Ja'far's eyes are bright in the darkness, sharp as they've ever been, and a long, shocked silence passes between them before Ja'far slowly lets him go without a word, sinking back onto his heels and _staring_. " _Judal?_ "

 

Judal carefully nods, sagging down into the floor with a heavy exhale. "Damn, you're jumpy. And what was with the hair pulling, really rude. I--" He pauses, squinting in the dim light of the room. "Have I ever seen you show so much skin? Hey, Kou fashion looks good on you." 

 

Ja'far flushes dark red, and for a moment, Judal thinks he might try and stab him with his … letter opener again. "What are you _doing_ here?" he bites out, voice low but no less furious for it. "You can't be here. If Kouen finds out--"

 

"I'm here to kill him," Judal firmly insists. "He's going to find out _anyway_."

 

"… I yanked you to the floor and you didn't grab for your wand, and you think you're going to kill him. Where did you travel from? Have you _eaten?_ " He doesn't wait for an answer before shoving an apple in Judal's direction. "Where is Aladdin?" 

 

His heart twists a little, at that. "In Laem." Ahh, food helps. "Listen, I just want to get this over with as fast as possible. Do you know where Sinbad is?"

 

"If I did, we wouldn't be in this situation." Damn, Ja'far sounds tense. "Look, there is far too much for me to explain, and you _can't_ be here, you absolutely can't, so just _leave_ , try and find Sinbad or something, _please_ \--" 

 

Judal is starting to think that he's messed up a lot more than he originally thought.

 

Suddenly, food isn't appetizing in the slightest, no matter how his body cries for it. "… I'm not leaving," Judal slowly says, "so you might as well _tell me_."

 

Ja'far, for a moment, looks all the world like he wants to cry. That's scarier than anything, and Judal can't help but stare. "If you're going to stay," Ja'far says, sounding so very, very tired, "then at least help me."

 

"… Okay." He thought killing Kouen would do that, but he supposes Ja'far has a point, about how that would be pretty hard minus his magoi right then. "Tell me what to do." 

 

Another, wary glance towards the door, and Ja'far shifts closer still. At least he looks a little bit more _relieved_ now. "Kouen thinks Sinbad is dead," he lowly murmurs. "We need to keep it that way. I… do you think you can stomach making him think you want him as your king?"

 

Judal chokes on a bite of apple. "If I _have_ to." It sounds like he has to. 

 

Ja'far nods. "Make him think you want to choose him, now that Sinbad is dead. Make it convincing, long enough for him to keep you around until you can restore your magoi properly. _Then_ we can try and kill him." 

 

Fair enough. There's a lot he's missing, Judal knows, but judging by how anxious Ja'far seems, it really doesn't seem like there's time for it. "… 'We'," he echoes, eyebrows arching. "But you don't have a vessel on you." 

 

Ja'far grits his teeth. "Don't remind me. Do you think you can find it?" 

 

"… Maybe? Household vessels are different, they don't have the seal." Judal tilts his head. "I can feel Baal over there, though."

 

"Probably the sword. That's the other thing I wanted to talk to you about, but--not right now." Ja'far lifts a hand after licking his thumb, scrubbing away a supposed smudge of dirt on his cheek, and Judal's eyes roll skyward. "Another thing," he sternly adds. "He thinks I killed his brothers, so keep it that way. Speaking of which, ever since then, I have been worried sick about you and Aladdin. What were you _thinking_ , just taking off like that--"

 

"We, uh. Weren't. Really. Stop _scrubbing_ at me--"

 

The sudden shadow of the light being blocked falls over the two, and Kouen folds his arms, peering down. “Well, well, well. Have you been hiding that thing in the palace the whole time?” he asks Ja’far with a sneer. “Or has it only just now wandered back in through the cat-flap?”

 

Judal didn't imagine his heart would stop _quite_ so badly upon seeing Ren Kouen for the first time in so many years. Ja'far's face is instantly and immediately cold, and Judal _knows_ , without a semblance of a doubt, that he can't fuck this up. 

 

_No pressure._

 

"I wouldn't have come through Freckles's window if you left the gates open for me," Judal sniffs, climbing to his feet in one, easy shove, smacking away Ja'far's hand roughly. "I would've come sooner, but… well. I was paying some long overdue visits. It's been awhile," he purrs, folding his hands behind his back as he leans up, " _Emperor_ Kouen."

 

Kouen’s face doesn’t betray the slightest flicker of emotion. It had been a long, long time ago when he’d taken a bratty child to his side and they’d been a fearsome team. If he were still _that_ person, he’d still be tearing this country apart in revenge for his brothers’ deaths.

 

He brushes Judal away physically, eyes only for Ja’far as he leans down, a slender wide silver ring dangling from one finger--a collar without a doubt. “I forgot to give you this. Wear it tonight, when you serve my wine.”

 

 _Whoa._  

 

What the hell did he come home to?

 

Ja'far's face twists, and he's about as close to snapping as Judal has ever seen him, and he has _seen_ Ja'far completely lose it before, teeth bared, eyes as sharp as any snake's, wires flying. This, though--this is something akin to a frightened animal, backed into a corner with no way out, and that's--

 

 _Wrong_.

 

It's not even _fair_ , besides. Since when did Kouen enjoy _this_ sort of thing? A challenge, at least, was always a dozen times more amusing, and Ja'far doesn't even have his _vessel_. 

 

Judal draws in a slow, even breath, and bites his cheek in a pout as he slinks closer once more. "Geez, have your tastes changed that much? Don't tell me you're turning into _Sinbad_." 

 

Kouen straightens, eyes only on Ja’far. “Make certain you wear it tonight,” he repeats, “or there will be consequences.” He turns, pausing at the door to add, “And get rid of this useless trash. I have no need for a healer so expensive to keep.”

 

Well, fine. Judal didn't want to pull out _this_ card so soon, but Ja'far looks like he's about to hyperventilate, and--"Really? Because I'm pretty sure my _blessing_ made your kid pretty damn healthy when she was born." 

 

Kouen freezes.

 

His hand lashes out, pinning Judal to the wall, eyes dark, intent. “Speak carefully,” he says slowly, in little more than a growl. “You have one chance to convince me you are more an asset than a liability, _White Queen_.”

 

There's an intense, desperate urge to grab for his wand. _Words first,_ Judal tells himself, no matter how his stomach does flips and his pulse is quick enough that _he_ might start hyperventilating next. _Even if I've never been the best at negotiations, I--_

 

"Did Hakuei not tell you?" he breathes, lifting a hand to close it around Kouen's wrist, slow and delicate. God, he's gambling here. Hopefully Hakuei didn't tell him much, if anything. "I visited your palace. I was looking for _you_ , to better speak with you… I had Aladdin with me, then, and it would have been easier if I had you along, to better kill him off." His eyes lid. "But you weren't there… so I just spoke to her instead. And made sure your daughter was healthy, of course. I can keep going--Laem next. Kougyoku's pregnant by that little priss now, you're welcome."

 

_A girl, and healthy._

 

_A girl, and healthy._

 

The words of that fateful missive repeat over and over in Kouen’s mind, longed-for, unexpected, but longed for all the same. If Hakuei’s djinn hadn’t been quite so _fertile_ he’d never have had them at all--by his age, with his lack of progeny, that’s all but certain. 

 

His stomach had been in knots, thinking about Judal in his home, Judal who he’d _spurned_ , and he’d been convinced that Judal had _done something_ , but…

 

_A girl, and healthy._

 

Slowly, Kouen relaxes his hand, bringing it up to tug on Judal’s braid, allowing himself that old familiarity for a moment. “It bothers me, to see you in the raiment of another. Have Ja’far find you something suitable to wear. You know my tastes. Tonight, I am holding a banquet to celebrate the birth of my heir, coincidentally.”

 

_Because if Ja’far knows about her, then everyone will, and if I can’t keep her hidden I’ll let everyone know that she is protected._

 

"I hope you're not inviting _him_ , then," Judal sniffs, lurching forward from the wall to lay a hand against Kouen's chest. _Relief_ makes his blood pound sharp and swift, and he can barely hear himself talk over the pounding of it in his ears. " _I'll_ pour your wine," he purrs, "and if we're going to celebrate, let's do it all at once, when I make you my king like I should've done years ago, hmm?" 

 

"Traitor." 

 

It's a hiss from where Ja'far kneels, and Judal's head jerks up, momentarily off-guard. _It's part of the act,_ he reminds himself, though damn if Ja'far doesn't look like he _means it_ , with how _unsharp_ his gaze is, how _wet_ it is with tears. " _Traitor_ \--he cast you out, _we're_ the ones that saved you and--"

 

"Oh, give it a rest," Judal mutters, and he does draw his wand then. _Sorry, Ja'far_ , he grimly apologizes, and it's with a flick of his wrist that a collar of ice promptly catches him around the neck, slamming him back into the wall behind him. " _You_ can sit there and be a good pet for a change, I'm tired of it." _That ice will take hours to melt, hopefully you'll miss whatever dinner entertainment Kouen had in store for you._ He immediately smiles up at Kouen. "I'm not _just_ a healer, you know. I'm really even better at magic now, you'll have to let me show you." 

 

A slow, unexpected smile curls Kouen’s mouth, and he leans forward to wind a strand of Judal’s hair around his finger. “And here I thought they’d completely domesticated you. Maybe the cat still does have claws, then. Good.” 

 

He hands over the collar. “Wear that tonight. You know what I like. And take that whore’s ring out of your stomach, or I’ll rip it out,” he adds, before shutting the door behind him.

 

"… It's not even gold," Judal grumbles, turning it around in his hand. "Stingy." 

 

"Thank you." 

 

That snaps his focus abruptly elsewhere, and Judal exhales, long and slow, a dozen reminders that he not only managed to avoid dying, but manipulate Kouen _fairly well._ Okay. Maybe he can do this. "Sorry," he mumbles all the same, though Ja'far looks a dozen times less annoyed and more relieved to sag back into the wall, never mind being pinned by ice that _can't_ be comfortable. "I tried at least not to use anything that would really _hurt_ \--"

 

"I would rather be here," Ja'far interrupts with a wave of his hand, "than _anywhere_ near that man right now." 

 

Judal swallows, knowing that feeling all too acutely. "… Yeah, well," he murmurs, flipping the clasp on the collar to fasten it in place around his neck. "I'm used to him. He grows on you, if you squint. Ah, god, when was the last time I've worn anything from _Kou…_ "

 

"I'd rather be covered in mold." 

 

Judal heaves a sigh, forlornly taking out the piercing from his navel and flicking it aside. "Stay put," he says, as if Ja'far has any other option. "I'll lock the door behind me so just… get some sleep or something." 

 

And god, if Ja'far doesn't look like he needs it.


	23. Chapter 23

 

Dinner is… interesting.

 

Judal isn't quite sure what to expect upon seeing the other generals in attendance (minus Masrur, weird), but he sure doesn't expect them to be so very _obedient_ \--or at least, attempting to be--when Ja'far was everything _but._

 

They don't look exactly _happy_ to see him, either, though that probably has a lot to do with how he drapes himself against Kouen's shoulder at every opportunity, pours his wine (minus snarky commentary, Kouen tells him, which, oh, god, Judal can only imagine Ja'far's mouth), and nearing the end of the meal, manages to get off of his feet for a few minutes in favor of sitting at Kouen's, nudging his cheek against his knee, nibbling fruit out of his hand.

 

He's _good_ at this sort of ruse. He knows how to seduce and how to manipulate like _this_ , even if it does make him a little queasy at how _easy_ it would be, falling into old habits with this man. 

 

 _Not this time_ , Judal tells himself, trailing at Kouen's heels at the end of it all, reaching up a hand to loosen the fastenings of his robes a bit more with a sigh, unused to the heavy brocades of the Kou empire after so long. _I know the difference, I definitely do. I don't want to be a pet._

 

And besides, Sinbad _is_ still alive, and more and more, Judal is starting to _miss him_. 

 

"You've sure got all of them on a short leash already," he sighs, collapsing back onto Sinbad's bed--uh, Kouen's, for now, he guesses--and snuggling his way down into the mattress. "What's the deal with Freckles, then?" 

 

Kouen supposes Judal deserves a little _indulgence_ for being so very, _very_ well-behaved. With Ja’far he would have treated it as no more than it was, an obvious ruse, but Judal’s never been capable of anything of the sort. Pretty, certainly. Useful, most of the time. But deceitful? Hardly.

 

He loosens his own robes, casting them to the floor as he covers Judal’s body with his own, tracing a finger over soft pink lips. “Freckles, as you call him, is something of a nuisance. I am attempting to teach him his place. Tell me, pet, have you missed my bed?”

 

He rather finds he’s missed the sight of Judal in it.

 

Well, that was fast _and_ easy. And if he remembers anything about Kouen, that's a cue to shut up and follow the train of thought _he_ wants, or nothing good will come out of being around him. "Have you missed _me_?" he archly replies, eyes lidding as his lips part, drawing Kouen's finger into his mouth for a brief, languid suck. "Don't you think I've gotten pretty?" 

 

_This should turn my stomach more._

 

But Kouen was never _cruel_ to him, not like this. Abrupt, disinterested at times, and because of that, too rough and just _passionless_ , but never cruel. _And yet you very clearly are with Ja'far,_ Judal thinks, a little twinge of pity raking down his spine. _God, Sinbad is going to kill you._

 

No. _He's_ going to kill Kouen. Then Sinbad doesn't have to worry about it, and all of this will be _done with._

 

“Quite pretty,” Kouen murmurs, rubbing his finger along Judal’s tongue. “Pretty and more delicate, I find. Really, Judal, don’t they feed you here?”

 

He lays down, crushing the Magi with his weight, pinning him down to Sinbad’s bed. Soon, he’ll be back where he _belongs_ , back in Kou, and things will be as they once were, only better this time. “Did Sinbad appreciate your beauty?”

 

Judal shivers, his cheeks hollowing on reflex to suck Kouen's finger deeper into his mouth, only to release it with a slick, wet pop and a ragged, hitching little gasp. _Yes, he appreciated it. Appreciates it still, dotes on me and tells me how lovely I am and--_ "Dressed me up like a doll, you mean," he pants out, squirming to hook a leg about Kouen's hip, another hand dragging up through his hair. "Don't they treat you like a _king_ here? _You're_ acting like a man starved."  

 

Judal reminds him of his _place_ , makes him feel secure, and for that alone Kouen would take him back. “Just another campaign,” he says, and hoists Judal’s legs up, before flipping him over onto his stomach. “You know I like it when the locals have a bit of _fight_ in them at any rate. Do you get what you need here?”

 

"If I did, do you think I'd come back to you?" he huffs, half-burying his face into the sheets, a little dismayed to find that they don't smell like Sinbad any more. " _Everyone_ in Sindria is an obnoxious git," Judal breathes, reaching back to tug his own robes up. "I'm amazed you haven't gone mad." 

 

“Oh, I have my...little amusements.” Kouen reaches down and spreads Judal’s legs apart, dabbing just a dot of ointment onto the end of his cock before pushing it in. “Some of them,” he grunts, grabbing those familiar hips with tight hands, “make quite good sport.”

 

Welcome to the reason he was intensely _bored_ within Kou. It's a lot easier now, not to whine and bitch about it, partially because there's so much on the line, and also because… well, Kouen always _did_ have a nice cock. And there's no use trying to talk to him about _anything_ until he takes the edge off, Judal remembers that very, very well. 

 

It's not quite slick enough to be _good_ , but Judal arches back all the same with a groan, setting his knees further apart on the bed to make it easier to shove himself backwards, wriggling his way back onto Kouen's cock. " _I_ better be better sport right now," he pants out, biting his lip against the tense, aching little twinge. " _Fuck me_."

 

Kouen grins, feeling the slick tight clench of Judal around him, and shoves him down to the bed hard, shoving his hips forward. “There you go,” he murmurs, setting a rough, quick pace, some of the unbearable _tension_ of the last few months finally ebbing, bleeding away with every savage thrust into Judal’s more-than-willing body.

 

“There she is, that’s my whore,” he croons, yanking Judal’s hips back with every thrust. “You don’t care who you get it from, do you? Filthy slut.”

 

_Well, I have some pretty high standards nowadays, but--_

 

Ahh, he'd be lying if he said it wasn't a _bit_ fun, being shoved around like he's just a toy, a hole to be used. He groans into the sheets, biting down on them as he arches back, humping back onto Kouen's cock with eager little wriggles of his hips. "Just want it from you," Judal huffs, twisting a hand back to grab at his own cock and stroke, eyes fluttering. "Pull my hair--tell me--ahhh… how good I look, when you're fucking me--"

 

Kouen’s hand lets fly, leaving a bright red handprint on Judal’s ass. “Shut up, whore,” he half-growls, half-laughs. “Don’t think you have any say in how I fuck you.”

 

He grabs Judal’s wrists, pinning them down over his head as he fucks in _hard_ , biting Judal’s shoulder hard enough to bruise, hard enough to bleed. “Don’t touch yourself, you’re not here for your pleasure. That’s not being a _good_ hole.”

 

And now he doesn't _need_ to touch himself.

 

 _That's not fair_ , Judal thinks a little desperately, his eyes rolling back into his head as his legs tremble, his hips jerk back no matter how his ass _stings_ now, the lingering reminder of Kouen's hand enough to make him hard in an instant, so hard that he drips onto the sheets beneath him. "I--" His fingers flex into the bed, a breathy whine leaving his throat as he _squirms_ , savoring the tense, hard slide of Kouen's cock, and every thrust that shoves his face down into the mattress. "Trying to be good for you," he manages to whine. "I just--I need-- _please_ , Daddy, hit me again, come inside me--"

 

Old habits die _hard_. 

 

Kouen’s grin is feral, eyes black as he gives Judal what he’d asked for, what he’d _begged_ for, hand meeting flesh a dozen times, each one harder than the last, turning his ass bright red between savage, cruel thrusts. “There she is,” he pants, fingers squeezing Judal’s wrists hard enough to leave bruises there too. “There’s my good little whore. So good for Daddy. Come on my cock, bitch, show me what a slut you are.”

 

The last words are grunted as he comes, the last few slaps of his hips rough, uneven, animalistic more than anything.

 

Not fair. Not fair at _all_ , not with how he shrieks with each slap, moans brokenly with every thrust, left to writhe and twist and shudder when Kouen spills inside of him, hot and slick and ahh, god, it _stings_. Judal whimpers as he bites down hard into the sheets, eyes squeezing shut as he messily spills without another touch with his own hand, his fingers clawing into the mattress. 

 

"Fuck," Judal weakly manages as he just lets his face plant into the bed, a ragged little exhale following. He's sick, isn't he, enjoying it so much? _Oh well_ , he dazedly thinks. _Making the best of a bad situation, and then some._

 

Kouen can’t wait to take Judal back _home_.

 

He pulls out, stretching out on the bed with a sigh. “Ren Koukuei,” he says quietly, reaching out a hand to run over the bruises he’d left on a pale shoulder. “That’s what we’re calling her. I want us to be back before the peach blossoms bloom.”

 

Judal flops down, slowly, shakily pawing his way out of his robes that still cling--now rather stickily--to his body, and exhaling a long sigh of relief to be entirely _free_ of the mess of them. "A good name," he breathes, eyes lidded as he tips his head to the side, brushing his lips against the side of Kouen's wrist. "Let me help you, and you'll be out of here sooner than that. Are you sick of seafood yet? The oysters are good, but…"

 

“Everyone here eats them cooked. Disgusting.” Kouen sighs, running a thumb over Judal’s lips. “I’m beginning to think the Sindrians aren’t worth saving or governing. Just sink the whole thing into the sea and walk away, probably. At least they aren’t in my way anymore.”

 

"I know, right? The only good oyster is a raw one, they always thought I was _weird_." Well, that's the truth, at least. "And don't do that, I like the markets--you know, when they're actually prospering," he dryly adds, wriggling himself closer as he butts his head into Kouen's hand. "You're just mad because Freckles is a little bitch. He's _awful_ , isn't he?" 

 

“Entirely awful,” Kouen agrees tiredly, obligingly scratching Judal’s head. “He spat in my face several times. I had to resort to...less than savory methods to force his compliance on a number of occasions, no style to the man at all.” He gives a lopsided grin. “And you’ll never lament the markets back in Kou. Let the people die with their king, the women aren’t pretty enough to stay my hand when the White Ghost is so obnoxious.”

 

 _Damn it, throw me a bone already._ Judal's lip juts in a pout, no matter how he rubs against Kouen's touch like the obedient pet he _knows_ the man wants him to be. "You _say that_ ," he grumbles, and lifts a hand plucking at the collar still around his neck. "And yet this isn't even gold. Do I have to keep wearing it? I don't even wear silver that well."

 

“Of course not.” Kouen takes the collar, amused. “It was meant for a snake. Gold suits you far better. Though I doubt Sindria has anything of worth, impoverished as it is. I’ll buy you something nice on the way home.”

 

"Sindria _used_ to be nice," Judal muses, sighing as he flops onto his back. "I mean, not as nice as Kou or anything. But it was nice, for a little while." His stomach rumbles, a stark reminder of that constant _drain_ on him-- _dammit, Sinbad_ \--and he grins sheepishly, huddling his way underneath a sheet. "Sorryyy. I traveled a really long way to get here, so… it still might take a couple of days to restore my magoi all the way, if you really _do_ want to sink this place. I still think you should wait, though--I mean, _how_ many countries do you have by the balls right now, just because of who the generals are?"

 

Kouen raises an eyebrow. “That was unusually astute for you,” he comments casually, fixing his eyes on Judal. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d thought about this in advance...or that you simply want me to spare their lives. Have you been here too long, pet?”

 

Ah. Right. _I'm supposed to still be that dumbass, aren't I?_

 

It'd probably blow Kouen's mind, to know he could _read_. "Probably," Judal admits, lidding his eyes. "They _were_ kind to me, you know. It was nice for awhile, but… I missed you, and everyone else so badly, and I--" He swallows slowly. "I'll never be able to forgive Ja'far… for killing your  brothers. I just… I always wanted the Kou Empire to be more powerful than anyone else. We were going to do that together, weren't we, before I lost my magic?" Hard not to keep his breath from hitching, at that. "Isn't it _better_ , more _satisfying_ , to at least watch Sindria _rot_ while you have it on your list of the conquered? It's not like they can do anything without their stupid king, anyway." 

 

Kouen throws an arm over Judal’s waist, pulling him close, suddenly protective. They _had_ been a good pair, and if only Al-Sarmen hadn’t seen fit to take Judal’s magic when he was being such a damned nuisance, they’d still be one. _Maybe we can again._

 

“Choose me. As your king. Do it now, and I’ll make you a present of Sindria. You can do what you like with it and its people.”

 

Well, that's… good. Really good. 

 

 _Don't leap on it_.

 

Judal huffs, pouting as he wriggles his way into Kouen's arms. "If I do it," he says, "you can't just make me go away again, you know. You're stuck with me, no matter what." He nudges up underneath Kouen's chin. "But I'll make you the most powerful king the world has ever known--you _know_ I will."

 

Kouen snorts. “Don’t be sentimental, Judal, it doesn’t suit you. I’ll keep you as long as you are convenient for me to keep, you’ve always known that. Now choose me, and help me rule the world with you at my side.”

 

"… The magic doesn't _work_ like that, it's--" Ah, why is he getting upset over technicalities that aren't even going to _exist_ with this man? Judal rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Sorry, I'm just hungry and cranky after all that traveling. For what it's worth," he lightly says, "I already chose you the moment I arrived here. There's no one else fit to be my king." 

 

Kouen frowns. He certainly doesn’t _feel_ any different--then again, would he? He’s never been a Magi’s chosen before, obviously. 

 

Best not to admit it, just in case it’s the wrong thing to say. “A wise decision,” he says instead, and tugs on Judal’s braid. “Go to the kitchens and stuff yourself. You’ve served your king well. Tell them no servants in the palace are to eat tonight.”

 

"You spoil me," Judal breathes, leaning in to brush a kiss to the line of Kouen's jaw. A deliberate ripple of rukh follows the touch, something he _lets_ Kouen see-- _let him think this is part of the package_ , Judal thinks as he slips from the bed, snatching up one of Kouen's discarded robes to drape around himself in lieu of his own. "I'll try not to wake you, when I come back." 

 

Kouen makes a face at that. “I hate being awakened, you know that. Sleep somewhere else.” _Especially when you’re all bloated and distended._

 

Judal tries not to twitch. Difficult, that, especially when he was so sure he was being so _cute_. Geez. "Yeah. Sorry, I forgot! Sleep well!" 

 

It's a relief, shutting the door behind himself, and Judal sags back against it with a long sigh.

 

 _Sinbad and Aladdin both don't mind. And Aladdin thinks it's_ cute _when I have to eat that much. Way to make me lose my appetite, asshole._

 

And he's not even sure if he _got_ anywhere. God, it's going to be a _process_ , isn't it?

 

~~

 

It really is a good nap, even if he's chilled and not in the most comfortable of sleeping positions.

 

It could be worse. He could be pouring Kouen's wine with his legs bared, a collar clasped around his neck like a damned dog. Being frozen to a wall is the least of his worries, especially when Judal is about.

 

… That's a phrase he never thought he'd formulate in his life.

 

Ja'far would laugh, if he wasn't so tired. Sleep, though, even the rather restless one he keeps slipping into, is so very, very appreciated, and he catches a solid few hours before _something_ jars him awake, a crack forming in the ice as he jerks, proof that it's melting in the same timeframe that Judal hinted. 

 

That's a _lot_ of noise, though, and Ja'far immediately starts to stress. _Did Kouen find out? What if Judal slipped up, and Kouen kills him--_

 

He knew it. He just _knew_ it was a bad idea, trying to involve someone else at this stage. 

 

The door bursts open, with enough force that splinters go flying in a hundred directions, and the first sight is that of a man in Kou’s uniform slumping sideways. Masrur runs in, feet denting the floor as he goes, and yanks the ice from the wall with one sharp yank. “Come on,” he mutters, looking over his shoulder. “We should have enough time to get out before they can mobilize.”

 

Oh. 

 

Oh, god, no.

 

"Masrur, what are you _doing?_ " Ja'far hisses, a frantic glance immediately spared down the hall, once he darts to the door. He wills his teeth to stop chattering as he whirls back to the other man. "I'm not going anywhere, I can't leave Sindria!"

 

“Then we will take to the streets,” Masrur urges, shattering what’s left of the ice bonds. His eyes burn as he takes in what’s left of Ja’far’s clothes, the exposed bruises. “I won’t see you like this another minute.”

 

There's twinge of gratitude that he can't ignore, but ah, god, the _timing_. "I _can't_ ," Ja'far repeats, reaching up to grab hold of one of Masrur's hands. " _Thank you_ , for trying to help me, but I absolutely cannot leave. And now that you have escaped… _you_ have to leave Sindria, or else he'll have you killed." 

 

Masrur stops, staring down at Ja’far, a sinking feeling in his chest. “I ruined it, didn’t I? What you were trying to do.”

 

He bows his head.

 

 _Maybe. I don't know yet._ "It will be fine," Ja'far insists all the same. "Judal is here, he can help me. And Sin--he's alive. I need you to leave Sindria, and _find him_. Tell him what has been happening here, so when he does come back, he is _prepared_." 

 

Masrur closes his eyes, and lets out a long breath. “Understood.” It’s all he’s ever needed to say, but this time, he pauses, about to climb out the window. “I think he would want you to be safe.”

 

Ja'far cracks a smile at that. "That, and the best interests of Sindria, do not always coincide. Oh!" Hurriedly, he pulls the earring from his ear, darting forward to shove it into Masrur's grasp. "Make _sure_ he gets this, no matter what. And tell him I have his damned sword."

 

That, at least, sounds better than simply leaving Ja’far at Kouen’s mercy. That sounds like leaving Ja’far at Kouen’s mercy with a _plan_.

 

“Understood.”

 

With that, and a last glimpse of red hair and bare feet, Masrur disappears out the window.

 

And Kouen had been having _such_ a good evening.

 

The messenger rouses him, getting a sharp glare for his troubles, and Kouen takes off at the words, in time to see several dead or wounded guards, a ransacked jail cell, and a puddle of ice rapidly melting all around Ja’far. His voice shakes with fury as he orders, “Search the surrounding areas! If you see _anyone_ with red hair built like that, kill him on sight! And _you_ ,” he snarls, stalking closer to Ja’far, “had tried to persuade me you were _docile_.”

 

Ja'far's chin lifts, eyebrows slowly arching as he stares Kouen straight in the eye. "It seems we share something in common, my lord," he lowly retorts. "Neither of us can quite control our subordinates to the extent that we would hope." 

 

“You,” Kouen growls, “have no subordinates! You are a _conquered general_ , you _exist_ at my pleasure!” And really, what pleasure even is that, when he has Judal and all the women he could need here? 

 

None.

 

“And my pleasure,” he spits, “is at an end.”

 

 _Well,_ Ja'far thinks, _at the very least, Sinbad will have that earring, and be well-prepared when he returns to crush you._

 

Still-- _always_ there is a 'still' because Ja'far supposes he doesn't ever know when to quit--there's no stopping the instinct to feint back, as if making a dive for the window, only to shift sideways instead and rip a sword right off of a guard's hip, drawing it in a flash and running the man through before spinning to face Kouen again. "I've told you before," he flatly hisses as he tosses the scabbard away. "I am the rightful King of Sindria in His Majesty's absence, and I _exist_ for this country!" 

 

Kouen’s power rumbles, and his djinn equip is blindingly bright. He’ll be _damned_ if he’ll underestimate Ja’far again, especially with a sword in his hand. “Then you,” he cries, voice imbued with the earthshaking power of the djinn that had killed Sinbad, “will die as the King of Sindria!”

 

It takes less than a second for him to gather the magic, and even as he sees Ja’far leap, he strikes, far too fast to be dodged.

 

Not, though, too fast to be intercepted.

 

He hadn’t heard the yell, if there was one. He hadn’t heard the footsteps, but it’s a body with white hair and dark skin that falls to the ground, hitting the floor in a sprawl of sword and tunic, lifelessly limp and starting to slowly bleed from his nose and open eyes.

 

" _Sharrkan--_ "

 

_This wasn't supposed to happen._

 

_Careless, stupid, damn it all, all of this could have prevented if we just--_

 

It's with a snarl that Ja'far scrambles upright again, the mere _aftershock_ of that magic enough to leave him dizzy. His own magoi crackles, sharp and bright around his body and sword, and he takes a long stride forward, over and in front of the body of his fallen friend and general. "If I die as a king," he grinds out, "then I'll make sure _you_ die as a _dog_."

 

The shock of _cold_ suddenly, _abruptly_ tears over his senses, and his head cracking solidly back into the stone behind him is no better, bringing his grip to loosen and the sword to clatter to the ground. Ja'far gasps, lurching against the ice _piercing_ his limbs this time, lifting his head to see Judal a pace behind Kouen, wrapped still in little but one of Kouen's robes, his wand lazily held within his grasp. "Why are you wasting your time, En?" Judal sighs, his head tilting to the side. "Let me have him. You _said_ Sindria and its people were mine." 

 

It takes Kouen a minute to collect himself. It _isn’t_ the death he was hoping for, this boy-general from a backwards savage country, playing at war with a wooden navy in his bathing pool. And on top of it, Ja’far is still snarling, and if Judal _hadn’t_ come in, Kouen would have happily finished him off.

 

Now, it would just be pathetic. 

 

“Very well,” he acquiesces, letting the equip fade away, his own robes swirling around him as he settles down to the floor. He rests a hand on Judal’s hair fondly. “I wash my hands of this wretch. You may do with him as you please, my Magi.”

 

Judal smiles, nuzzling into Kouen's touch like the most obedient of pets, and Ja'far finds it hard not to _retch._ "We've still got a good part of the dungeons that gross Fanalis didn't destroy, don't we?" Judal sighs, twirling his wand between two fingers. "I've been traveling all day, so I don't wanna deal with this right now. Let's throw Freckles down there for the night, shall we? Oh, but--" A flick of his wand, and he flips Sharrkan's still, limp body over, all the better to see how soaked in blood he now is. "Toss this one in there with him. Maybe a night reflecting on his mistakes will make him _really_ angry." His smile widens. "That'll be fun." 

 

“Very well.” Kouen snaps his fingers, and the guards file cautiously forward. God, but he can’t _wait_ to be rid of this country once and for all. “Take the snake and his _friend_ down to the dungeons. If he escapes, I’ll have every single one of you disemboweled while you are still living, and make a present of your heads to your families.”

 

The guards move faster at that, grabbing the live man and the dead one, carting them down to the dungeons. “And _you_ ,” he says, tangling a hand in Judal’s hair, “are coming back to my bed.”

 

"I can't think of a better way to spend the evening, my king," Judal sighs, tugging against the pull on his hair playfully. "The way your rukh feels right now--there's _nothing_ more perfect." 

 

~~

 

Ja'far is bitterly, _terribly_ certain that he's made the worst mistake of his life. 

 

It isn't even Sharrkan's death, though being locked in a cell with him, forced to see his dead, lifeless body for the entirety of the night-- _that_ is enough to drive him mad, and eventually he twists to bury his face into the wall, staring into grey stone as he tries to _think_.

 

He hadn't expected Judal to do this. 

 

If this is acting, it's far, _far_ too much--and as much as he wishes Judal _were_ this great of an actor, he simply _isn't_. He's never had the brain for subterfuge, never had the _confidence_ , either, and to so cruelly do something like _this_ , when there were a dozen other options… 

 

Ja'far's eyes squeeze shut, and he sinks back into the wall, drawing his knees tightly to his chest. Kouen is one thing--Kouen and a _Magi_ is something entirely different. He should have known, the moment Judal arrived without Aladdin. 

 

“Boy,” Sharrkan rasps, “that Kouen really packs a punch.”

 

Ja'far nearly scales the wall with how he scrambles and jumps. He's hallucinating. How _fantastic_. He's--

 

No, Sharrkan's chest is definitely rising and falling. 

 

His own chest heaves, and Ja'far _stares_ , not quite sure if he should move closer or not. "… Sharrkan? You're…" _Somehow not dead?_

 

Sharrkan sits up slowly--ow-- _very_ slowly, clutching his chest and grimacing. “Ow. I uh, don’t suppose you brought any of that ice with you? I’m sore as hell.” He blinks around at their surroundings. “Oh. Dungen, huh? Probably no ice, then.”

 

"How in the world are you--" A deep breath, and to _hell_ with them both being sore--Ja'far lurches forward, grabbing him and _squeezing_ him. "You," he huffily declares as he simply grabs hold of Sharrkan's face, "are the biggest idiot out of all of us. Why in the _world_ would you jump in front of an attack from a djinn equip? What were you _thinking?_ " 

 

Sharrkan’s bones hurt kind of a lot, but he smiles through the grimace, mostly. It does feel sort of good to not have Ja’far hate him openly, that’s for sure. “I wasn’t really thinking,” he admits. “I mean, I saw him gearing up, and then I was running, you know? Sword in hand. I think Judal tried to stop me or something, he sent some light at me and it was cold as hell, but I got through it okay--it slowed me down, I would have gotten there earlier and hit him.”

 

He frowns, scratching his head. “Don’t really remember anything after that. What happened?”

 

Ja'far exhales slowly, sinking back as he releases Sharrkan. Now he has to rethink a dozen things--the fact that Sharrkan is alive… god, who in the world could survive that except for Sinbad? And even then, it's questionable, for such a direct hit. "… I'm starting to think Judal is smarter than he's letting on," Ja'far mutters, lifting a hand to half-bury his face into it. "Ahh. I just was made fool of by an idiot." He needs to sleep. 

 

Sharrkan hesitates for a minute, but to hell with it. Even if he doesn’t exactly agree with Ja’far’s way of handling this whole thing, there’s no doubting whose side he’s on in a fight, that’s for sure. “Hey,” he says gently, “when’s the last time you got some rest with someone you trust watching your back?”

 

Ja'far shakes his head slowly. "If they come in here and realize you are alive… I don't know what they will do. I'm fine. Besides, I sent Masrur to find Sinbad. It won't take long, and I need to be _awake_ when he gets here."

 

Sharrkan stares uncertainly at him. He can see the bags under Ja’far’s eyes, the strain lines, the slight tiny twitchings, as well as hear it in his voice. There’s tired, and then there’s overtired, and then there’s whatever Ja’far is. “I’d like to do _something_ as a corpse,” he says wistfully. “And who knows the next time you’ll get a chance?” He sighs, shaking his head. He _knows_ Ja’far, and if he won’t do it, there’s no one with the chance of forcing him but Sinbad.

 

Ja'far wavers.

 

It comes down to the fact that there's _one more person_ actually on his side, and he could break down sobbing in relief for that alone. One more person, and that gives him just a tiny bit more hope. "I… you need to keep playing dead," he finally says. "If you want me to sleep. And I can't, not for more than a hour or so."

 

Sharrkan nods smartly. “I’ll be a perfect corpse, and I’ll wake you in an hour.” He reaches out, squeezing Ja’far’s shoulder. “Relax. I won’t let anything happen to you while I’m here. You’re not alone.”

 

Ja'far thinks he nods, maybe knows he blinks too fast and his face is wet after the fact, _definitely_ knows he sort of lists to the side, effort draining out of him in an instant as he hits the ground. Sleep, actually, is a really, really good thing.

 

 

 

~~

 

“This is your _fault_.”

 

Sinbad sits cross-legged on the ground, scratching at the itches from the rough tunic as well as he can with the damned chains binding his wrists and ankles, and glares at Alibaba. Obviously, this is Alibaba’s fault somehow. Odd, how much more inclined he is to point fingers in this form. 

 

It’s Alibaba’s fault, for trying to pull him back, for not understanding immediately that there was no way Sinbad _could_ pull back and let this go, not when there were slaves in the back of the cart that he _recognized_ , women and children from _Sindria_. It’s Alibaba’s fault for not _supporting_ Sinbad in this immediately, for grabbing at his arm and trying to keep him back instead of charging in alongside him as Ja’far would have done.

 

_Can’t think about Ja’far. Can’t think about what must have happened, what must have gone wrong for there to be Sindrian slaves._

 

(He can, and does.)

 

Worst of all, Sinbad hadn’t anticipated not being able to draw on his magoi. He can _feel_ it recharging, with every brief rest they take, with every bit of food he stuffs in his mouth, but none of it _responds_ to him. Without a doubt he knows it’s because of the form he wears, knows it instinctively, but he’s neither confident in his ability to go unrecognized without the equip, nor confident that his arms and legs will have regrown fully, and he’s as useless without hands and feet as he is in chains.

 

That doesn’t mean he likes the chains.

 

"Why the hell is it _my_ fault?"

 

Alibaba is too tired, too annoyed to really start arguing with Sinbad about technicalities. If he wants to get into it, he'd point out that his own magoi is dangerously low, and has been for some time because 99% of their food goes to Sinbad, in hopes that he'll regain enough magoi of his own soon enough to return to his normal body. Maybe if he had enough to at least perform a weapon equip, they wouldn't be in this situation at all. 

 

Wishful thinking, of course.

 

He sighs, banging his head back against the wall behind him. "Maybe if you had actually told me what you were doing--was I supposed to read your mind or something?"

 

“Well, it sure wouldn’t _hurt_. Ja’far always does.”

 

Worse than being taken prisoner is that Sinbad still can’t _reveal_ himself to the other slaves, his _subjects_ , can’t give them a bit of hope. He hears them, talking about the king’s death, the changes in Sindria, and it almost makes him furious enough to snap his chains with his bare hands.

 

Almost.

 

The iron is still strong.

 

He sighs, tipping his head back against the wall. “Get some rest, I suppose. Might as well take something good out of this before we escape.”

 

"… You can stop comparing him to me at any time, you know," is Alibaba's deadpan. Actually, he's pretty sure that Ja'far is all that Sinbad has talked about for the past few days of traveling. 

 

Sinbad sighs. It’s not as though it’s a fair comparison, after all. Ja’far is an advisor, a supporter, the best he could ever wish for, and Alibaba is…

 

“If you don’t wish to be compared to a king’s advisor,” he says slowly, turning it over in his head, “would you prefer to be compared to a king? Or a general? What is it you want to do with yourself, when this is all over?”

 

"I _want_ to be able to take my country back." More than ever, he wants that, especially seeing firsthand the collapse-apparent of _Sindria. "_ If there's anything left, at any rate," he adds tiredly. "One way or another, I'll get it back and rebuild it." 

 

“Why, though?” Sinbad asks, stretching out as much as he’s able, in the crowded quarters. “What do you want to take it back _for_? A country without a cause is as bad as a king without a country, or a country without a...system of government,” he amends wryly. “What is Balbadd to you, besides the place where you and your family were born?”

 

"… I haven't really thought about it like _that_ ," Alibaba admits, leaning his head back with a frown. "I've just… I want to make my father proud at _some point_ here; I mean, he died, wanting to leave Balbadd in my hands. Not honoring his wish and making it as great as it used to be--that seems like the mark of a pretty awful son."

 

“Your father is _dead_ ,” Sinbad reminds him, trying not to be too cruel about the whole thing. “Yes, he died wanting you to be king, but that doesn’t _make_ you a king. Your duty is what you make of it. Balbadd doesn’t need a governor, a senator, a minister, whatever you want to call yourself, that resents it for existing. Do you care anything for the city and its people? For your own sake, not anyone else’s?”

 

"Of course I do!" It comes out perhaps too-sharp, too-loud, and Alibaba grimaces, scrunching himself back up into a ball. "I _do_ ," he lowly insists. "More than anything! That's why I wanted to become strong, and it's why I went _back._ "

 

“Good. But to govern, you need to be more than strong. You need to have people you trust, and actually _listen_ to them. You need to be smart, and you need to understand your people. What do the people of Balbadd want, at the core of it? And don’t say a king, that’s not what I mean.”

 

"… I don't know," Alibaba admits wearily, heaving a long sigh. "They've never… they've always just been so focused on trying to make me their king that everything else seems… secondary."

 

Sinbad _attempts_ to reach over and pat the boy’s shoulder, but the chains make that a bit difficult. Instead, he leans to the side, bumping his shoulder against the younger man’s. “Wrong. They want to be _safe_. They want to be _fed_. They want to know that their children will grow up strong, and they haven’t seen that there’s any way to do that except through _you_. Give them food and safety, and they won’t care if there’s a king or a parliament today. In ten years of safety, they’ll start to have opinions about the government, but for _today_...come on, Alibaba, you knew this when you lived in the slums.”

 

"Maybe I need to start pretending I live in the slums again," he mutters, cross with himself as he shakes his head, looking away. "I think I did better there, than I did anywhere else."

 

Sinbad shrugs. “Maybe Balbadd needs a slumlord. The rich are doing fine without help, aren’t they? Isn’t it the poor that you wanted to change things for?”

 

"… Considering the last time I tried to do anything directly for the poor ended pretty damn badly, I'm not so sure about that." Alibaba sighs. "Sorry. I'm whining. I get it. I'm just really tired and I'm hungry and you have boobs and it's _still weird_."

 

Sinbad laughs. “Here I thought it would be better with the slave tunic. I can’t exactly take them off, you know. I don’t even know if my own body has regenerated fully yet.” He pauses, thinking. “Would it make you feel better to touch them?” He can be kind to a boy in need, after all.

 

" _No!_ " Alibaba gawks, his face bright red. "Whole new level of weird! I'm--no, definitely not!"

 

“You don’t?” Sinbad shrugs, bringing his hands up to cup himself through the tunic. “They’re quite nice, if I do say so myself. Nothing to be alarmed about.”

 

"Stop that! Normal girls don't just go around grabbing their own boobs, you know," Alibaba hisses. "Or _offering_ to let people touch them."

 

Sinbad sighs, letting them go. “I don’t see why _not_. It’s a very generous thing. And girls offer to let me touch their breasts all the time. If you don’t want to be compared to Ja’far, you’re sure saying a lot of the things he’d say.”

 

Alibaba strangles a noise into the back of his throat. "Yeah, well, _in my experience_ , the only girls that do that are…" Okay, so girls definitely do it to Aladdin, too. 

 

Okay. Point taken.

 

He flops slowly to the side. "I give up."

 

“You do _that_ entirely too easily. If you only take one piece of advice of mine to heart, let it be this: don’t give up until you’ve lost. No, not even then, don’t give up until you can’t _possibly_ come back. I’ve lost my country twice now, but I guarantee you I’ll be able to take it back a second time. How many times have you lost your country?”

 

"… I don't really like thinking about it." A sigh. "A lot? Well, I mean. I kinda gave it away the last two times."

 

God, but Aladdin’s got his hands full with this one. Poor boy. “Right, well, they still want you, don’t they? The people _see_ something in you.”

 

"I hope so, I'm not going away this time," Alibaba mumbles. "I mean--I'm away right now, but that's because I'm helping you." _Or trying to._

 

“And it is _much_ appreciated,” Sinbad assures him. “If it weren’t for you, I’d be dead at Kouen’s hand right now, and don’t think I’ve forgotten it. I’ll make sure Balbadd knows you’re a hero, the people love a reason to love a hero.”

 

"Let me do something for my country that works for once," Alibaba wearily retorts, "and then I'll actually believe it."

 

Sinbad opens his mouth to say something about _giving up again_ , but stops when the ground shakes. The horses veer wildly, the other slaves shrieking and clutching each other, until the cart slams to a stop.

 

A quiet voice filters in, a woman’s voice, that says calmly, “You will release these slaves. You have one minute.”

 

And from the cart, whispered, half-fearful, half-hopeful, “It’s _her_.”

 

_Her?_

 

Alibaba rights himself after being thrown sideways--directly into Sinbad's goddamn chest, go figure--and shakes his hair out of his face, attempting to twist and peer out from the slats of the wagon. "So if the king of Sindria and the… whatever of Balbadd get saved by some amazing hero… you're not gonna write about _that,_ are you?" 

 

Of course I am,” Sinbad says cheerfully. “Especially if it’s a she, and she’s gorgeous. Readers love that kind of thing.”

 

“You now have thirty seconds.”

 

“Kill her!”

 

The other slaves suck in a horrified breath, but a moment later there’s a choking, groaning sound, and the thud of a body hitting the floor. A moment later, seven or eight thuds follow it, and a dark-robed figure strides out of the sun, breaking the lock on the slave cage with one almighty kick. “You are free,” the woman says. “Please allow me to give you some money for passage to wherever you please. You may take whatever you wish from the slavers. Before you leave, please do me a favor and listen to these names, and tell me if you recognize them.”

 

Sinbad grins, even as the list of names gets longer and longer, and elbows Alibaba. “Sound familiar?”

 

Wait.

 

 _Wait_. 

 

Alibaba bolts upright, scrambling to his feet, unable to contain himself when the sudden recognition is far, _far_ too clear. "Hey! _Hey_ , Morgiana, Mor, I'm--will you all _move_ , I'm back here, it's _me_ , Alibaba!"

 

“Rikian. Dorus. Veimar. Ansi--” 

 

The voice stops, and slowly pulls off the hood. Morgiana blinks red eyes, staring. “Ali...baba?” Then, slowly, her face spreads into the most genuinely happy smile she’s worn in years. She starts to lunge for him, then pulls herself back, face flushing.

 

"Yes, it's me!" Ahh, he hasn't felt so _relieved_ in days--months--god, _years_ , and never mind how it takes _effort_ to shove his way to the front of the cage and grab hold of her robe. "Break these shackles, I need to hug you properly! It's been so long, I--" He suddenly flushes hot, rocking back onto his heels. "I mean--I really missed you, I didn't expect to see you _here_ , of all places!"

 

The flush creeps back over Morgiana’s face, and with one squeeze and one stomp she shatters the shackles on his wrists and ankles, not waiting to grab him into a fierce hug.

 

"Too tight," Alibaba wheezes, giving her back a pat in a desperate bid for mercy. " _You got stronger._ "

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

She releases him, eyes tracking down to the ground, the kind of breathless uncertainty she’d almost forgotten about coming back in full force. “Come, we should get to safety.”

 

"It's fine, it's fine," Alibaba manages after the breath returns to his lungs, and he turns, waving urgently to Sinbad. "Come already, let's get out of here! Sorry, this is gonna be a long explanation," he nervously adds back to Morgiana.

 

“I don’t mind listening to you talk,” she says softly, pausing only when one of the slaves grabs her hand. 

 

“Thank you, my Lady,” the woman whispers, eyes shining.

 

Morgiana helps her to her feet, pressing a small bag of coin into her hand. “Spread the word.”

 

Sinbad raises his eyebrows at Alibaba, a smile on his face. “You have all the luck today, it seems.”

 

Alibaba sort of doubts it's his luck. Probably Sinbad's, sort of draining onto him by virtue of being around the guy. _I guess that's okay, too,_ he thinks with a sigh. "Well, the sort version of it is--we were headed _to_ Sindria when we got captured," Alibaba attempts to begin, following at Morgiana's heels. "And we really, really need to get back there and stop the Kou Empire as soon as possible. We've heard it's pretty bad."

 

Morgiana catches one glimpse of the tall, curved, elegant woman climbing out next to Alibaba, and her feet accidentally shatter part of the ground. “I see.”

 

Not exactly the reunion she had hoped for. That’s all right. She’d made her choice years ago, even knowing that Alibaba would almost certainly find another woman.

 

Ah. That's a different one of voice than before. "… Um… I mean, I'm not asking for help or anything," he hastens to amend. "I'm sure you've got your hands full. Just--I don't know, if you know of a caravan going that way, or something… ah, would you mind breaking Sinbad's chains, that'd be really helpful."

 

“Sinbad?”

 

Morgiana looks up, startled, and...ah. Now that she’s paying attention, the pretty lady _does_ smell exactly like Sinbad. She shatters the chains, and asks, in a very small voice, “So she isn’t your wife?”

 

Alibaba blinks, then laughs, shaking his head rather sheepishly. " _Wife?_ Yeah, right. Like anyone would want to marry me right now." _Or ever, at this rate_. "No, it's definitely Sinbad. He's just… uh, like I said, it's a really long story."

 

Morgiana looks from Alibaba to Sinbad, then back again. “I will come with you to Sindria, if you want me along.”

 

Alibaba looks back to Sinbad, hesitant and hopeful all at once. "She'd be able to help a lot, don't you think?" 

 

Sinbad beams at her, and gives her a big hug, which she tolerates. “Of course. We’ll be a hundred times safer with Lady Morgiana on our side!”

 

“Please don’t call me Lady Morgiana. Morgiana is fine.”

 

"Perfect! Ahh, now we just need Aladdin along, then it'd be just like the old days," Alibaba sighs out. _And, you know, if I had any magoi to speak of right now, I might be able to be useful, too._

 

Also, if Morgiana gets any taller, she's going to be taller than him. _Unacceptable_ , he tells his body.

 

Morgiana spares Alibaba a little smile. “I have missed those days,” she admits. “Ah. There will be someone who wants to see you, Mr. Sinbad.”

 

Sinbad blinks. “There will?”

 

When they crest the next dune, in the distance Sinbad can make out another caravan, little dots of people running from it. Morgiana pulls out a lantern, then flashes it twice. Moments later, an answering flash comes from the caravan, and a cloud of dust starts moving closer at alarming speed.

 

“Um,” Sinbad starts to say, but moments later the cloud stops, Masrur standing in front of him, and Sinbad’s face lights up.

 

Masrur tolerates the initial hug with better graces than Morgiana would have, probably.

 

Alibaba is starting to think things _might_ actually get better, for the first time in what feels like forever. "Ahhh, good," Alibaba sighs, turning to Morgiana with a smile. "Sinbad was kind of going crazy, not being able to talk to anyone from Sindria. This way, he should be able to find out what's going on and will be a lot happier." 

 

Masrur at least doesn’t seem to have the same confusion about Sinbad’s identity that Morgiana had, she notices as Sinbad pulls the other Fanalis to the side, presumably to talk about Sindrian things. “Masrur must have seen him like that before,” she muses. “Or he’s not bothered by Sinbad turning into strange shapes.”

 

"… Maybe both?" Alibaba guesses, and he shrugs, content to leave them be and let Sinbad catch up properly for now. "So is this like your hobby or something? I thought after all this time, I'd be hunting you down in the Dark Continent if I wanted to see you again."

 

“I was in my homeland for four years,” Morgiana says, staring off into the horizon. “I never heard of anyone like you coming there. Don’t worry, I didn’t expect you to want to follow me.”

 

"I didn't mean it like _that._ I--" Alibaba swallows, lifting a hand to awkwardly rest it on her shoulder. "I had a lot of things I needed to do. And things I _still_ need to do. It doesn't even feel like it's been that long. If I could have… I would've gone after you."

 

Warmth creeps up on Morgiana from the inside, rather than the bright sun of her homeland. It’s an odd feeling she’d nearly forgotten about, and she doesn’t protest the hand on her shoulder. “I’m looking for those who have been taken. I want to find and release all I can, and give them passage home. I have hoped it would bring me to Balbadd.”

 

She starts to say something else, but an explosive slew of curse words that she’s never heard before suddenly shake the sand with their vitriol, and she looks up in time to see Sinbad’s eyes blazing with rage, face contorted. “Horses,” he snarls, and runs back towards the slavers’ wagon as fast as he can, Masrur following only slightly slower, working to shatter the wooden yokes on the horses. 

 

“Ah. I think he wants to return to Sindria now.”

 

"… Ah, yeah." Alibaba grimaces, giving her shoulder a last squeeze that probably lingers for too long before he pulls it away again. "Guess it wasn't good news. We should probably hurry up, if he's like this… well, it _can't_ be good at all." 

 

“You!” Sinbad barks, pointing at Alibaba, all of his earlier good humor muted into furious rage and hatred. “Can you ride a horse at full speed?”

 

Alibaba's back immediately straightens, eyes wide. _Holy shit, what did he miss?_ "I--yes!" 

 

Sinbad swings up onto a horse, then thrusts the reins for the other into Alibaba’s hands. “Then _do it._ ” 

 

His horse leaps at a kick, and gallops as fast as Sinbad can encourage it, Masrur running only a couple steps behind. Morgiana looks up at Alibaba. “Shall we go with them?”

 

 _She asks that like we have a choice_ , Alibaba grimly thinks, and he sucks in a quick breath before swinging up onto the other horse's back. "Yeah, and you're riding up here with me," he tells her, thrusting his hand out for her to take. "You can tell me what you did back in your homeland for all those years while we ride!"

 

Morgiana instinctively clings to Alibaba’s waist, the unfamiliar motion making her heart leap. This feels wrong, riding on an animal’s back, not trusting to the strength and power of her own legs, but…

 

The vessel on her arms hums from being so close to Amon’s power, and Morgiana lays her cheek against Alibaba’s back. “All right.”

 

~~

 

When Ja'far wakes, he's _freezing._

 

That's saying something for him, when the cold is something he can tolerate so, so much better than the desert's sun and heat. He shivers, twisting himself in a tighter ball, expecting his muscles to ache all the more with the motion and finding, surprisingly, that they _don't_.

 

"Ahhh, you're finally awake. It's been really boring waiting for you."

 

Ja'far's head snaps up, the sight of Judal standing outside of the cell, arms crossed loosely over fine Kou brocades, enough to make him shiver all over again. He doesn't quite remember what he decided--is it a very, very good ruse, or is Judal really against him now? "… Judal," he warily greets, lifting his head. "Last night… what were you thinking? I--"

 

Judal holds up a finger to his lips, and Ja'far can almost _hear_ the sound of ice forming--this time, very pinpointed, and he looks down at his feet to the sight of frost coiling over the cell floor in a very, very specific pattern.

 

_Listening spells everywhere. Al-Sarmen, so can't touch them._

 

Ja'far could cry from relief, all the same. _With me_ , he dazedly thinks in relief, wondering why he ever doubted, and ahh, all of those long, hard hours forcing the brat to learn how to read and write _properly_ are so very, very worth it.

 

"What do you _think_ I was thinking, Freckles?" Judal breathes, his breath a smoky cloud as he exhales. "Do you know how long it's been since I wanted a piece of you?" He smirks. " _This_ dumbass was just a bonus."

 

The frost crackles as it reforms again. _What do you need me to do?_

 

This isn't how he wanted to discuss any of this. Ja'far swallows hard. _The Sword of Baal_ , he mouths, and Judal's brow furrows on a frown. "… I should've known better, than to ask you for help." He's still so tired that it doesn't take much to _sound_ that way. "I would've thought, because of Sinbad--"

 

_What about it? Still can't find your vessel._

 

"Sinbad is dead," Judal carelessly interrupts. "I should've known better, really, to pick a king so _weak_. Kouen was always the better choice, after all." 

 

_I want to make Baal mine. Help me._

 

"You're little better than a whore." Ah, well, he's probably wanted to say that for awhile, regardless. 

 

Judal fixes a rather deadpan stare upon him, for that, but nevertheless snorts, waving a dismissive hand. "Not like it'll matter to you by the end of the day. I've decided how I want to kill you. If you wanna remember that stupid king so much, then I'll make sure it's by one of _his_ swords. Don't worry, I'll make it something really nice."

 

_I've never done that before, no idea if it'll work. Good chance you'll die, Baal isn't even my djinn._

 

Ja'far's face twists with a wry smile, no matter how Judal looks decidedly anxious. "Better than the silver your master wants to put around my neck, I hope." 

 

_Then I'll die, but I want to try all the same._

 

_~~_

 

_"Hey, En. I want that."_

 

That's all it takes, really, to have Baal's sword taken from the wall and placed into his hands. Judal is so very, _very_ certain that Ja'far's plan simply won't work, but who is he to deny the man at this point? There's nothing else _he_ can think of doing, and obviously, if Ja'far weren't desperate, they wouldn't be going this route. 

 

A public execution is decidedly flashy enough that Kouen doesn't even bat an eye, and he _laughs_ when Judal tells him how he wants to do it, amused and in good-humor as he pets him. Judal feels sick again, and his smile is strained, the weight of the sword in his hand distressing rather than comforting. Baal merely _shrugs_ at him, the infuriating djinn, no matter how he tries to plead with it to _please, please listen and work, suck my magoi dry if you have to, just please_. 

 

When Ja'far is dragged before him, bound hand and foot in chains, it takes very little to flick an unnoticeable amount of magic there, freezing the metal until it starts to crack. 

 

_Make this look like it's my doing, so if it fails and I die, you don't die with me. You have to take care of Sindria if I can't._

 

No pressure at all, Judal miserably thinks.

 

"He almost looks _good_ like this, don't you think, En?" Judal murmurs, the tip of the blade shoving its way underneath Ja'far's chin, forcing his head to lift. "A damn shame he's got such a mouth on him, or he'd look good as an ornament on your throne." 

 

“Hmm, I thought so too.” Kouen strokes a hand slowly down Judal’s hair, down his back. All the better if everyone sees him possess his Magi, after all the time Judal had spent at the late, ridiculously lamented Sinbad’s side. “I did offer him a chance--chance after chance, I was really quite reasonable.”

 

He leans down, giving Ja’far’s face a casual slap. “What if I offered you one last chance, dog? What would you do, to be able to live as my slave?”

 

It takes all of a split second for Ja'far to hiss, lunging to try and take a bite out of Kouen's hand. "Every second you let me live," he lowly vows, "I will think of a new way to try and _kill you_." 

 

Damn, but Judal would never, _ever_ want to be Kouen. 

 

He wants that even less when there's a sharp _crack_ , the chains binding Ja'far's hands and feet splitting with a vicious yank, and Judal yelps as Ja'far lurches upward, the movement so fast that it takes a moment to connect _pain_ with the loss of the sword in his grasp, the sharp twist of his arm that forces him to drop it barely a visible thing. 

 

"I have told you a dozen times." Ja'far's chest heaves as he straightens, the sword unerringly pointed at Kouen. "I want none of your chances, and I will never be your _slave_. Fight me as the emperor you claim to be, you piece of shit." 

 

Kouen’s blood sings with hate.

 

He reaches down and grabs the closest part of Judal, yanking him back behind him with a powerful grab to his braid, sending him sprawling far, far behind. His eyes glint with power, and his sword flashes as he draws it, feet rising from the ground. “No one is here to die for you this time. You think you can fight me with a sword you can’t even _claim_?”

 

He laughs, the sound ringing like the clang of a brass bell, nearby attendants covering their ears from the discordant notes. “Fight me, if you can!”

 

It would be _better_ if he didn't already have Sinbad drawing on him, a slow but steady drain for days that makes him dizzy. At least, Judal thinks it would be--maybe it wouldn't matter, because the sudden pull upon is magoi is unlike anything he's felt before, all to give Baal that extra little _shove_. 

 

 _Just five minutes_ , Judal pleads with the djinn as he shoves himself up onto his hands and knees, still scowling about the misuse of his braid. _That's all he needs, I know Ja'far, and he's part of your household, so_ please--

 

He can _hear_ the djinn sigh, as if humoring a small child, but that's good enough, as far as Judal is concerned.

 

It isn't as if Ja'far lacks the magoi. He never has, and what has always made him so _annoying_ to fight in the past is that he has as much or more than any man or woman Judal has led on to conquer a dungeon. Oh, not as much as Sinbad or Kouen, but that's negligible, when it's simply the summoning of _one_ djinn in particular, this one flashing with white-hot lightning, Ja'far's eyes slitted as thin as any snake's. "In lieu of your king and master, take me as your vessel to walk upon this earth," Ja'far lowly invokes. "Dwell in my body, Baal!" 

 

There's a lurching hesitation, and for a moment, Judal thinks that's it--that no matter how Baal wants to humor them, it simply won't _work_. Then, just as suddenly, enough light to blind them, enough sparking, untamed electricity to make his hair stand on end, and when a pair of Kouen's generals rush forward in kind, Judal loses sight of it all.

 

For maybe a moment. 

 

The spray of blood when they are cut down is enough to make _him_ flinch further back, the sword a far longer thing now, all serrated edges too-like a snake's fangs. Baal's armor, all iridescent blue-green scales, glitters bright in the Sindrian sun, and the long whip of its tail coils at Ja'far's feet, whipping back behind him as he moves, the far longer trail of his hair following as well as he cuts through another man to get to Kouen, the ringing clash of steel against steel sharp on all ears. "I don't need to _claim_ this sword," Ja'far hisses, eyes bright and starkly gold, "to see _your_ end." 

 

Kouen’s guard goes up instantly. He’d _thought_ he was on his guard, thought he’d prepared for whatever this young fool could throw at him, but this...this is a surprise, and Kouen isn’t fond of surprises in his own fights. 

 

He steps back a pace, blazing eyes locked on the creature that is Ja’far and Baal, even though it _can’t be_. “You,” he snarls, turning on Judal, everything clicking in that instant-- _he’s a traitor, he’s working with Ja’far, he could_ never _have used Sinbad’s djinn if it weren’t for Sinbad’s Magi helping him-_ -”you _traitor_ , you’ll die first!” 

 

His hands come up, and he launches into the air, a beam of pure strength magic lancing from each hand, one towards Judal, one towards Ja’far, singing the air with the crackle of the power as he lets fly.

 

Judal really _does_ enjoy laughing in his face, even as he scrambles to throw up his bolg, the sharp connection of Kouen's magic against it far more jarring than it should be. "Does it make you _mad_ , En, when your pet misbehaves?" he snidely purrs as he shoves himself entirely to his feet, drawing his wand. "Without Sinbad, _Ja'far_ is my chosen king, not _you_." 

 

Ja'far has never been _kind_ in swordplay.

 

There a dozen rules of chivalry, or so Sharrkan has mentioned to him on a dozen occasions--all of which Ja'far has to roll his eyes at. _Why_ would a person not attack from behind, if the opportunity rises? All the better to swiftly kill and end a fight, which is the end goal, as far as Ja'far is concerned.

 

And faster is definitely _better_ , when he's in this state.

 

Baal's power races through his veins, and it's a sharp, potent _drain_ on every sense that he has, more than anything he has ever felt before. Blocking Kouen's attack is enough to make his teeth scrape and grind, enough to make his knees shake and threaten to crumple, but he lurches forward all the same, the flare of his sword as the clouds split above them blinding. 

 

Let Judal simper and snark--it's a far better distraction than anything, when _he_ needs to be _better_ than _fast_.

 

" _Balalark Saika!!"_

 

Kouen won’t just kill him.

 

Kouen will _rip him to pieces_ , eat his heart, piss on what’s left, hang bits of him from every available surface, burn him to dust--

 

He lets out blast after blast, leaving his hands in rapid succession, a veritable whirlwind forming around him as the air heats, more from the friction of the power passing through than the heat of the magic itself, spending most of his hits on Ja’far, wanting to _hammer him through the ground, grind him to ash_ \--

 

More than once, he misses on purpose, hurls a piece of Sindria’s architecture to the ground. “I’ll kill you with your own beloved country, traitorous _snake_ ,” he snarls, watching the world crumble around them.

 

Cutting down the remainder of Kouen's generals is an easy thing, thankfully, no matter the steady drain on his magoi, the tell-tale lightheadedness that makes Judal desperately wish this would _hurry up and be done with._

 

He suddenly regrets that wish. 

 

No matter that he still has enough magoi to help fuel Baal's materialization, no matter if Ja'far is _far_ from at the bottom of his own barrel, there's a sudden _snap_ , a disconnect from Baal and Ja'far and _everything_ , Sinbad, too, that leaves his vision black and his world spinning.

 

_None of that, little Magi._

 

Judal thinks he should be able to recognize that voice, but he can't think past the sudden _panic_ that rakes down his spine. Baal's sword clashes into Kouen's once more, and Judal lunges into the middle of the fight, grabbing tight to Ja'far to send them both flying to the ground as the sword itself simply _shatters_ , his own bolg barely enough to block the explosion from _that_ , let alone Kouen's own attack.

 

Coughing, choking on dust, Ja'far forces himself to his knees, shoving the hilt of the broken sword into the ground to force himself up. _Robes in tatters, no more armor--but I get to keep the long hair_ , he bitterly thinks, shoving the length of it out of the way as he desperately turns to Judal. _Thank you, Baal._ "Judal! Judal, what happened, I thought we both still had enough magoi--"

 

 _Why?_ Judal angrily thinks even as his world spins, the dizziness now reaching the point of blood pounding into his ears, the sight of the rukh around him swimming and blurring. _Why did it stop working?_

 

_You, of all people, should know better than to bend Solomon's rules again._

 

What's left of his bolg flickers and shakes before dissolving in a last, desperate sputter, and Judal's eyes roll into the back of his head as he collapses.

 

This isn’t quite how Kouen wants to do it. He wants to grind their faces into the ground through his own power, not because they’ve been stupid enough to tamper with the laws of the universe and been shot down for it--

 

But he’ll take it.

 

A burst of raw power smashes into Judal, and Kouen catches him, lifting him by the hair as two guards run forward to grab Ja’far. “You,” Kouen hisses at Judal, slapping him awake, “are going to watch me kill your co-conspirator. And then, one of my friends here is going to do a little something to you.” 

 

He throws Judal to the ground in a heap.  A hooded figure appears, a man from Al-Sarmen, and his hand glows.

 

Kouen turns his attention to Ja’far. He claps shackles, cold iron this time, no wrought silver, around one ankle, fixing the other with heat and magic to the metal of the elaborate throne. He tears off what’s left of Ja’far’s clothing, stepping on his head, grinding his face down into the dirt. “Now you will die, as a dog, as a traitor, with your precious sword.” He picks up the broken sword, dragging the jagged end over Ja’far’s belly, opening a thin red line. “Neck, or belly, dog?”

 

Ja'far doesn't really feel any of it. 

 

His teeth sink into the inside of his cheek and he tastes blood, shoving up against Kouen's boot, teeth bared in a snarl. Starkly, sharply over the pounding of blood in his own ears, is Judal's desperate pleading, his sobs, hysterical from how he's barely conscious, begging for them to _please don't not that anything but that I'll do anything Ja'far help me please--_

 

"I don't care." His teeth grind hard. "I will go to the grave as your damned _dog_. Just _kill him_ , if you have a shred of good left in you." 

 

Kouen casually twists the sword, leaning down to shove the point through the skin of Ja’far’s belly, watching in delight as the blood starts to pool. “Do it,” he orders, and the Al-Sarmen wizard’s hand comes down.

 

A wind--a _whirlwind_ tears through the square, enough of a tornado that Kouen catches a glimpse of whole desert trees twisting in the stratosphere, sand-colored, tearing up cobblestones, loud enough that he can’t hear his own shout. He sees the flicker of black when it scoops up the Al-Sarmen wizard, sees him revolve a few times before being spat out to slam in a bloody heap against the side of a building, as the whirlwind slows, then dies.

 

Aladdin the Magi, grown now to a man, stands in the center, the seal on his forehead blazing, unaffected by the tornado he’d ridden, eyes blazing as he kneels, lifting Judal easily in his arms. “It’s all right,” he says, eyes focused on Kouen, hard as diamonds. “He won’t have the chance to hurt anyone again.”

 

He's hallucinating again, he _has_ to be.

 

Then again, with how hard Judal is crying, how he's clinging to Aladdin's neck with what's left of his strength--not much, that--Ja'far has to second guess that thought again, his eyes wide as he heaves out a harsh breath. "Aladdin--" He twists his head, and it's easier to strain against Kouen's hold when the man is so distracted. "Don't--" _Don't bloody your hands with this trash, he's not worth it_ are the words that he wants to say--moot, without a doubt, but god, he'll certainly try. 

 

Aladdin’s eyes flicker and falter, face going gray at the sight of Sinbad’s broken sword going into Ja’far’s belly. His voice is less certain, more upset, as he steps forward, face contorted in anger and worry. “Stop it! I’ll let you live if you leave him alone!”

 

Kouen can’t help but laugh. He digs in the sword, thoroughly enjoying the way it makes Ja’far writhe, how every time he strains against it it just makes the wound deeper. He sends a bolt of crackling heat at Aladdin, so fast the young Magi barely manages to counter it. Oh, yes. I can win this fight.

 

“You should have stayed away,” he crows, eyes alight with malice, with gleeful hate. These are the moments he truly lives, besting his enemies with his own hands, making them bleed, and he shoves the sword’s broken hilt down, only to bring it up and lick the edge. “Now,” he whispers to Ja’far, “you have breathed your last.”

 

So focused is he that all he sees is Ja’far, bleeding and broken and useless, completely under his power. He has a bit of attention spared for Aladdin, running forward with his hands outstretched, but it’s too late.

 

The power in his hand dies.

 

He looks at it, confused as the cold shocks through him, something wet on his tongue, an odd, detached ringing in his ears.

 

He looks down at Ja’far, and moving his head doesn’t feel right, it feels as if he’s simply

 

Falling

 

As his eyes turn down, he notices a bare hand, not his, a man’s hand, holding a bloody lump of _something_.

 

It protrudes from his chest, sticking out red and dripping and ragged, and it’s been a long few heartbeats since he’s drawn a breath.

 

Come to think of it, there haven’t been any heartbeats for a while.

 

The light fades from his eyes, but he has a few seconds left of sound. The last thing he hears is a man’s voice.

 

“That’s enough, Kouen.”

 

_It’s time to go home._

 

Kouen’s body slumps forward on top of Ja’far, and Sinbad kicks it to the side, yanking his bloody arm free. His chest heaves, body covered in sweat and blood and sand, clad in a rough slave’s tunic, two brass earrings hanging down as he looks down at Ja’far. “Hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.”

 

Ja'far doesn't breathe.

 

It's not even that he _can't_. That automatic rise and fall of his chest that fills his lungs is simply _secondary_ to lurching forward against the chain around his ankle, his vision glazing hot and wet and ah, that's blood, too, streaking down his face along with his tears. 

 

"You're late, _you're really late_ ," Ja'far _thinks_ he sobs out, clawing his way up, shaking as he clings, damning the fact he can't get _closer_. "I'm sorry, I tried _everything_ , I broke your sword and I'm _sorry_ \--"

 

One move, and Sinbad rips the chain from the throne, kneeling to take Ja’far into his arms. He’s never clung to a human so tightly, never held _anything_ so tightly as he holds Ja’far, face buried in his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he manages, and he’ll tell the whole story _later_ , for now, this is enough. “You’re alive, you’re _alive_ , I was so worried…”

 

Aladdin sets Judal down gently, placing a kiss on his forehead as he lays a hand on Ja’far’s back. Healing magic glows as he whispers the words Judal taught him so very, very long ago to use on this same man, sealing up the wounds, replenishing the blood.

 

Ja'far's hands claw their way around Sinbad's shoulders, clinging so tightly to him that he's white-knuckled and trembling, chest heaving with what feels like every sob he's ever repressed. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm s-sorry I'm _sorry_ \--" _For everything, for not being able to do anything, for our people getting hurt and ever leaving your side and so many things, I--_

 

Wrapped up in Sinbad's arms, held tight to the warmth and strength of his chest, his body finally, gratefully gives out, consciousness leaving him in one blessedly fast rush. 

 

As soon as Aladdin gives him the nod, Sinbad stands, taking the clothes off his own body and wrapping Ja’far in them. It’s a symbol that goes over well with the people, the ragged few servants cheering, taking that as an invitation to run up and drape their own clothes over him, and he obliges for a few moments, kissing and hugging and squeezing hands. “Tell the people,” he calls, voice booming through the hall, “the King has returned!”

 

He stoops, picking up the broken piece of his sword, confident that Aladdin is watching over Ja’far. Then, he brings it down, and holds up Kouen’s severed head. “Masrur!”

 

Masrur comes forward without a word, and hands over a spear. Bless him, he _does_ have a sense for the appropriate. 

 

Sinbad fixes the grotesque thing on the end of the spear, to another round of applause. Honestly, Sinbad doubts he’ll have to do much, if any, fighting. “Drakon.”

 

“Yes, your Majesty.”

 

Sinbad doesn’t look at him, looking instead at the swell of people, all the townsfolk running in to see the place where the _tornado_ had been, bursting into wave after wave of cheers at the sight of their king.

 

“Go to the Kou Army. Tell them they can either surrender--no conditions, strip off their uniforms and walk naked to the other side, and become Sindrians--or be cast into the sea.”

 

“Yes, your Majesty.”

 

“After that, I’ll deal with you myself.”

 

“Yes, your Majesty.”

 

“Judal?”

 

The sound of his name makes him start, his vision still blurring with tears as he can't quite seem to stop _crying_. Pathetic, he knows, to be curled up in a heap of torn silk robes and sobbing about something that didn't-happen-but-maybe-could-have, but--

 

Oh, god, Sinbad must hate him, too.

 

Judal lifts his head, trembling, eyes wide and wet. He can see, out of the corner of his eye, no matter how everything feels _singed_ at the edges and overused to the point of agony, how a good third of his rukh is tinted black, mockingly fluttering about as a heavy reminder of what he's _done_ , how he's bent the universe yet again. 

 

"I'm sorry." It sounds hollow, compared to Ja'far. "I…" _If I hadn't killed them, if I hadn't left, none of this would have happened._

 

Sinbad moves, pulling Judal up by the front of his robes, giving him a long, hard kiss on the mouth, no matter how public they are, and holds him close. “Good, you’re still with me. I’d have been dead on the road without your magoi, my Magi.” 

 

He looks out at the sea of people, thinking fast. “How soon until you can raise the shields?”

 

Judal blinks up at him rapidly, abruptly stunned out of crying. "You don't… you're not mad at me?" He sounds like a child, he knows, but he doesn't _care_ right then. "I…" He swallows hard, sniffling and lifting a hand to scrub at one eye, a smear of kohl left in his wake. "I can try and do it now, but after that, I don't think I can do much more." 

 

Sinbad pulls him close around the waist, holding him tightly. He places another kiss to Judal’s hair, then brushes the kohl away with a gentle thumb. “Do that one thing, and you can sleep for a month,” he promises. “And you’ll have saved Sindria for the rest of your life. I _need_ you just now.” He gives a smile, some of the _relief_ that he’s found them both alive and...if not _well_ than at least _alive_. “And you’ll be by my side forever no matter what.”

 

Relief bubbles up through him, and Judal nods rapidly, tears pricking into his eyes again for a wholly other reason. 

 

_This is why you are my king, and no one else._

 

He heaves a shaky breath, forcing himself to step back and away. "I… yes! I'll do it, you don't have to worry." 

 

Sinbad smiles, releasing him with a last squeeze. “I’m not worried, I have you with me.”


	24. Chapter 24

 

Ja'far wakes--not cold or all that hungry, though particularly sore and still very, very tired.

 

Letting himself drift back to sleep is an idea, though a veritable cacophony of voices makes that impossible. It takes a moment for it all to make sense in his ears, and eventually, he pieces together someone asking for Sinbad-- _loudly_ , at that--and Sinbad annoyed enough to snap back before he rises and strides out, never mind how Ja'far's fingers twitch belatedly in an attempt to catch hold of his sleeve and keep him there. 

 

The door shuts and closes before he manages to slowly heave himself up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed with a grimace. _Sinbad's chambers_ , he dimly realizes, not his own, and the long, loose tunic draped over his form is of decidedly Sindrian make, thank all blessed gods that he doesn't believe in. 

 

His legs feel about as steady as a newborn colt's, but he manages, anyway, no matter how his knees briefly buckle with the first step. _I am definitely_ , Ja'far wearily thinks when he reaches the door, _an invalid._

 

He doesn't even care, upon opening the door and seeing Sinbad's back, and he reaches out to simply grab hold of the man's ponytail to keep him from getting too far away again.

 

"I will string you up," he tiredly threatens, "If you move again."

 

All of Sinbad’s irritation, his annoyance with the temporary deputies of Sindria he’d appointed to keep order in the city during the period of convalescence, vanishes in a heartbeat. He turns his back on them and their problems, which he’s solved anyway, and favors Ja’far with a slightly concerned, deeply relieved, very _warm_ smile. “It’s good to see your face, my friend.”

 

It’s always difficult to keep his hands off of Ja’far in public. Just this once, it’s much, much harder than usual to keep from just _kissing_ him in front of all the men collected in the hallway, and Sinbad’s heart aches for the lack of it.

 

Ja'far has to physically tilt his head to look up, his eyes still not quite wanting to follow all of his cues. It's sort of… mind-numbing, to see Sinbad's face again, smiling and relieved and warm and--

 

He probably shouldn't be allowed out in public just yet, what with the inclination he has not to _think_. Slinging an arm about Sinbad's neck, stretching up on rather wobbly tiptoes, and kissing him full on the mouth in a hallway of crowded people is most certainly not a well-thought out thing, but oh, if it isn't _satisfying._

 

Abruptly, all of Sinbad’s _other_ emotions, along with what’s left of his rational thoughts, vanish along with his irritation. Everything vanishes, the world narrowing to Ja’far’s mouth on his, and he bends, lifting the other man easily by the waist, holding him close.

 

He doesn’t remember opening the door, but he remembers kicking it closed. He doesn’t remember crossing the room, but he’s aware of laying Ja’far down on the bed, this time stretching out alongside him, still kissing, kissing, mouth hungry and as gentle as he can be when he wants so _badly_.

 

Ja'far _hates_ that his body doesn't want to listen. 

 

He hates it, when he wants nothing more than to grab and claw and cling and wriggle himself close and bury himself against Sinbad and have him on top of him and _near him_. His breath hiccups, and he manages the wriggling closer part, at least, the clinging to Sinbad's hair part, too, even when he breaks from Sinbad's mouth to bury his face into his neck, panting and shivering. 

 

"I _missed you_." It's a raspy whisper at best, and Ja'far's chest heaves. "Don't do that again. This country needs you too much." _I need you too much._

 

Sinbad comes back to himself slowly, winding his arms around Ja’far’s back, holding him close with all the strength he can manage. “Never again,” he promises, knowing full well he can’t promise anything of the kind. “I don’t like going where you don’t follow me.”

 

He huffs out a little laugh, burying his face in Ja’far’s hair. “God, it’s still like moonlight, but it’s _everywhere_. I drown in moonbeams.”

 

Oh. He'd forgotten about that. "… Give me a knife," Ja'far crossly mutters, or _tries to_. It's difficult, when Sinbad's easy compliment strikes a chord in him, making his chest twist when he recalls so very strongly having little but the moonlight and recollections of Sinbad's words to wrap himself in. 

 

Sinbad’s hand strokes through the silken strands. He’d combed it several times, while Ja’far had slept, along with cleaning, healing to the best of his extremely limited abilities, massaging, reading aloud from the new book he’d been writing. “Just now? You’ll have nowhere for it to go, it’ll be so messy.” He twines his fingers around it, marveling how no matter how long it is, it’s _just the same_ , as if there’s nothing about Ja’far that can be truly taken from him. “Let me have just one more day of it, would you?”

 

Truth be told, he isn't even sure he could use a knife right now without slicing himself in the process, and so Ja'far sighs, nodding before he simply lets his head drop heavily against Sinbad's shoulder. "All right. Consider it a welcome home present." His eyes lid, the ridiculousness of it all still annoying him. " _Your_ hair stays the same as always after a djinn equip."

 

Sinbad raises an eyebrow. “You say things like that, and it makes me wonder how much Masrur left out when he told me what had been happening in my absence. What dungeon did you conquer, then?”

 

"… Did I forget to tell you how I broke your sword?" He doesn't remember, honestly. Ah. Oops. 

 

Sinbad chuckles, folding Ja’far in closer to his chest. “Baal, was it? I hope he was some help, lazy lout.” It seems impossible that he’d forgotten what it was like to hold Ja’far when he’d spent every night imagining doing exactly that, but this is a hundred, a thousand times better than his remembrance.

 

"He was," Ja'far slowly allows as he fairly smushes his face to Sinbad's shoulder, even though the shocking _failure_ of that still makes him grind his teeth, far more for what happened to Judal than his own pride or injuries. "I couldn't recover my own vessel, so I had little choice, my apologies. It was a rather gross overstep… Judal and I--ah, is he all right?" 

 

“Judal’s fine,” Sinbad reassures him, stroking through that silvery white hair again. “He was in here for a few days, then woke up and ate the entire kitchen. After that he toddled off with Aladdin--ah, I’m under strict orders to tell them both when you’re quite ready for visitors.”

 

"I'm not yet." Though he _is_ intensely relieved to know Judal is all right, and seeing Aladdin soon will be nice… Sinbad, he needs _Sinbad_ , and he shoves aside that bone-deep weariness to curl himself closer still, winding his arms tightly around him and rubbing his face into his shoulder. "I'm sorry." He sounds like a broken record, he's sure, and for that his face flames. "Nothing I did… none of the other generals except Masrur would _listen_ to me." 

 

“Mmm, so I’ve heard.” 

 

Sinbad nuzzles the younger man, eyes closed as he just _holds_ Ja’far, strokes his back and tries to reassure him with every movement _you are safe, we are together, this is home_. “Sharrkan in particular I think has a bit of a guilt complex about it, he’s tried to send you quite a few flowers. Is there something particular you’d like done with them?” He has his own plans, of course, but it’s Ja’far they’d betrayed, in the short run.

 

"… No."

 

Truth be told, Ja'far doesn't even want to think about it. It makes his chest tighten and makes him _angry_ \--two things that are all the more tiresome at the moment. "Be lenient with Sharrkan," he dully adds. "He _did_ eventually redeem himself, though I am certain he still believes I was playing the role of a hysterical wife. I was never hysterical, mind," he crossly adds, lifting his head. "I was very calm. You would have thought me very amusing." 

 

“Amusing? I certainly think you very brave.” Sinbad snorts. “Though judging by what Masrur said, I can only imagine Kouen attempting to break you would have been...endearingly unsuccessful.”

 

Ja'far sniffs in outright irritation. "My wit was lost on that _pig_." 

 

“I don’t doubt it in the _slightest_.” Sinbad’s arms tighten, and he says, a little rueful, “Will you forgive me for a bit of base jealousy? I had rather cut my limbs off again than imagine his hands on you.”

 

He tries hard not to gag at the memory, failing shortly after. "If another man other than you--or woman, I don't care which--touches me again without my permission, I will likely murder them on the spot." It's a very, very serious warning.

 

Disgustingly masculine, that just hearing those words makes Sinbad relax. There’s no fighting nature, he supposes, even if he has no _real_ claim on Ja’far, the only one he’s ever _wanted_ to claim. “Masrur told me little.” _Masrur told me plenty, but I’ll give you the prerogative to pretend he left it vague._ “I swear, if there had been a way for me to reach you sooner, I’d have pledged my soul to it.”

 

"Masrur doesn't mince words," Ja'far wearily retorts, knowing very well the other man's rage--the same that made him break out from that dungeon in the first place--probably made him mince them even less. "I can assure you that I am fine, though would not be adverse to finding whatever you did with--" God, he can't even say his name. "That piss poor excuse of an emperor's body and filleting it before feeding it to the sharks. _Especially_ his prick. So yes, you are allowed to be jealous, though there was _little_ for you to be jealous about, all things considered."

 

That, at least, makes Sinbad laugh, even if his arms do tighten until their grip is almost certainly uncomfortable. “His hand with his ring, I sent to his woman, courtesy of Judal’s information. His arms and legs, you are near the mark, I stirred up a sea monster and fed them to him, and days later had it slaughtered for the people’s feast. The offal I had burned in a bonfire, like the night we retook Sindria from its shambles, and the head...well, if you turn a bit, you can see it out your window, still on the spike.” _And if I knew a wizard who could bring him back, I’d kill him again and get a hundred times more creative._ “I didn’t intend to make a public spectacle of emasculating him. I didn’t want anyone to know, but there were a few dozen women who were very, ah, firm on the subject, so I hope you don’t mind that I handed it over to them. They were...enthusiastic.”

 

"Oh, good," Ja'far sighs, looking _quite_ satisfied with that news. "Yes, they deserve it. He was really far more terrible to them, I think. Fortunately, I have learned that I am not the Kou standard of beauty at all, and was far too sharp-tongued for his taste, besides."

 

“What an imbecile. I adore your tongue.”

 

"That is because you have half a brain."

 

“I’d rather have half a brain and your respect than whatever Kouen had,” Sinbad retorts, and places a defiant kiss on Ja’far’s freckles.

 

"He had my teeth, most of the time," Ja'far deadpans, lidding his eyes beneath the kiss with a content sigh. "The bastard broke my leg one night. I took out a chunk of his hand. He never did learn."

 

Sinbad frowns, leaning down to rub over a leg gently. “Yamuraiha told me he’d done that. Aladdin said he’d fixed that as well as your other hurts, but tell me yourself, and truthfully. Are you quite well? Are you hurt in any way that I can help?”

 

"I'm fine," is the simple, immediate reply, and Ja'far slides a hand down to grasp at Sinbad's, drawing it back up and to his lips. "Tired," he adds quietly as he brushes a kiss to the man's knuckles. "And feeling rather like I have been run over by a horse or twenty, but fine, nonetheless."

 

That’s a relief, to hear it from Ja’far’s own lips, and Sinbad relaxes. “You,” he murmurs, tightening his other hand around Ja’far’s waist, “can stay abed until you feel entirely well. I think even my most strenuous, demanding general would agree that you deserve a rest, wouldn’t he?”

 

"… For once, I think he would agree." Ja'far sighs into Sinbad's palm, looking up through his lashes as he kisses each finger in succession. "You sounded somewhat stressed, though, dealing with… was that your temporary excuse of a cabinet? Bring me the books to do, at least, I don't want their hands on our numbers."

 

Sinbad wants to argue, but when actively kept from work, Ja’far is always a hundred times _more_ stressed. “As long as you stay in bed,” he allows. He starts to rise, then flops down again, nuzzling into Ja’far’s shoulder. “Later. A little later. I need to be with you for a bit more first.”

 

"I will stay in bed." _Especially if you are here with me._ Ah, no. No need to be that selfish. Sinbad does have work of his own to do. "When you finally do leave and come back, at least bring me a damned hair tie." 

 

“You should let me braid it. I’ve heard I’m quite good, even Aladdin says so.” He leers a little, though it’s somewhat impeded by the cheerful grin. “I do like to think I’m a man that’s good with my hands.”

 

"… You have your moments," Ja'far allows, the corner of his lips twitching upward. "Go on, then, you have my permission. At least it isn't like Judal's hair. I'd probably die."

 

“No, you’re not allowed to die before me,” Sinbad chides gently, and sets his fingers to work, gently combing and straightening before separating it into three equal-ish parts. “You know, I was half-expecting, before I ran into Masrur, that I’d come back and no one would have noticed I was gone.”

 

"You're insane." Ja'far's eyes lid before he allows them to shut, rather enjoying the feel of Sinbad's fingers in his hair, no matter how the length of it annoys him. "Even if they all had listened to me, I could never be the king you are."

 

“And if I weren’t convinced that you could run Sindria just fine in my absence, I’d never have left at all. Don’t sell yourself short, you were the only person who did what I’d have wanted you to.”

 

 _That_ is a weight off of his shoulders, and Ja'far exhales a long, shuddering breath in relief. "I was starting to wonder," he murmurs, "if _I_ was the one in the wrong."

 

“Never. And this is why, previous royalty nonwithstanding, I’d have picked no other king for Sindria.” He smiles, finishing up the braid and tying it off. “I did myself a great service the day I recruited you.”

 

Ja'far slowly shakes his head, briefly eyeing the braid out of the corner of his eye before flicking it over his shoulder. Whatever. If Sinbad likes it, he'll keep it around for a day or two. "As long as I can stay by your side, I will be happy. I am a far better clerk than king, I think."

 

“And I am a far better king than a mermaid.”

 

"… What?" Oh. Ja'far snorts. "Oh, god. How many have seen it now?"

 

“Ah...Alibaba, in its true form. Quite a few people from Balbadd to the middle of nowhere, but none of them knew my identity. Morgiana. Masrur.”

 

"Ah, that's not so bad." Ja'far perks up a little bit more. "You met Morgiana on the way?" 

 

“Mm, she saved us from captivity. Remind me to write that into my next book, it was quite a striking moment.”

 

"Captivity," Ja'far deadpans. "Well. It sounds as if you have had quite a time of it, too."

 

“You know, I’ve dropped a _few_ comments about losing my arms and legs, and you haven’t seemed interested at _all_ , but _that’s_ the one you care about?” Sinbad huffs. “I’m beginning to think you just love the idea of me tied up.”

 

"They're obviously all here now, so why should I be concerned?" Ja'far snorts dismissively. "And I _did_ threaten to string you up if you left again--ah, though… I don't suppose you've found Balalark Sei yet, have you?" 

 

Sinbad smiles at that. Ja’far can always hear the whole story later. “I’m surprised you can’t feel it from so close. He had it stuffed into my mattress, the bastard. I’ve had everything replaced, don’t worry.” He shifts, throwing out an arm, and tugs up the edge of one red wire. “All here, safe and sound.”

 

"… My magoi might be a little… fried." Or Baal is put out with him, pick one. "He never _did_ allow me in here," Ja'far wryly admits, relaxing a bit further at the mere sight of it. Just knowing it's there is good, but… "Hand it to me?" he quietly requests. Paranoia always wins out, in the end.

 

Ah, well, not being sliced up was fine for a while. Sinbad can put up with a bit of danger for Ja’far’s peace of mind. He hands the vessel over, feeling the thrum of it with a wry grin. “Baal is a bit put out with me as well. Looks like I’ll need to find him a new vessel.”

 

"Sorry," Ja'far says again reflexively, slowly pushing himself up to make it easier to wind each wire around his arms, heaving a long sigh at having it in place again after so long. "I was afraid he had thrown it away or something equally disgusting."

 

The relief on Ja’far’s face is worth any displacement. “Not to worry. And it isn’t as though I haven’t got plenty of djinn to protect me while he finds a new…”

 

He trails off, Baal rumbling in his ears. “No,” he mutters, irritably. “No, they’re not vessels, I’ll find something.”

 

"Whatever it is, you should probably appease him," Ja'far wearily puts in, flopping heavily onto his back again after strapping the blades in place. "I have done more than enough damage to anger him, at this point."

 

“No, he wants my earrings.” Sinbad snorts out a breath. “You own a djinn for a couple decades, suddenly it starts making demands.”

 

Ja'far's eyes roll skyward at that. "He has no taste, obviously. They're just brass, find him another ridiculously flashy sword."

 

“He has fine taste, he’s just not getting them.” _I’ll find you a new sword._

 

_The brass rings, I shall dwell there._

 

_I really think you shall not._

 

"There's nothing fine about brass, and I certainly don't know how you keep them from catching on all of your hair all the time," Ja'far mutters. "Just _one_ was a pain." 

 

Sinbad raises an eyebrow, and his hand comes up, tracing over a small, slightly raised hole in Ja’far’s ear. “Pity I missed that,” he murmurs, breath hitching slightly.

 

"Ah, is it not closed up yet?" Ja'far murmurs, tilting his head into the touch. "Oh well. You know I don't wear jewelry, don't get too excited."

 

He would normally beg, or plead, just to see it _once_. Just now, Sinbad merely relaxes back onto the bed. “All that excites me today is seeing you well, and having you in my arms.” _As I half-feared I never would again._

 

"Then you must be very excited indeed," is the sigh to follow as Ja'far simply sets his head atop Sinbad's chest. "Because I have no intention of leaving any time soon."

 

 

~~

 

A day and a half in, and Ja'far thinks he is starting to go insane. 

 

Insisting upon still dealing with Sindria's books and records was a wise decision. It keeps his mind occupied when he wants to press an ear to the door and listen to every mutter in the halls, wants to reach out and shake a temporary advisor or two, and better yet, contemplates strangling his own long-time fellow parliamentary officials for being so damned _slow_ in his absence about getting _anything_ done.

 

He wants to pull his hair (all of it, every too-long strand of it) out. 

 

"Are there any updates I should know about?" He's a bit too eager to know, and he's sure it shows on his face when Sinbad comes to visit at the end of the day. Ja'far has never been one to _need_ another person's presence around him all the time--and he certainly still doesn't know--but he's starting to think he should ask Aladdin to drop by, or at least embarrass himself by asking for Sinbad to eat dinner with him. 

 

Sinbad drops down to the bed, forgoing the bedside chair in lieu of being able to _touch_ Ja’far, however innocently, while talking. It will be a long time, he thinks, before he finishes truly appreciating having full facility of his own body. “Well, there were apparently very few soldiers who either didn’t take me seriously or didn’t care. One assumes they either swam several miles in swift currents full of sea monsters to shore or, ah, not. Relatively few, maybe a couple hundred. I put Hinahoho in charge of whipping the rest of them into shape. Next week, he and Drakon are going to lead that contingent East to secure the borders and trade routes. They will probably,” he adds, with a sideways look at Ja’far, “be gone _quite_ a long time.”

 

It's a little difficult, not feeling some relief from that. Right now, the less he has to interact with Drakon, the better, until he feels less _betrayed_ by the man. "Good." He unfurls a scroll over his lap to distract himself from heaving a long, grateful sigh. "Very good. Sindria desperately needs those routes as soon as possible. Will we have much resistance from Kou, do you think? Has Hakuei assumed the throne, or have our messengers not returned yet?"

 

 _Messengers_ is a pretty way to put it. “I am given to understand that she will at least be open to negotiations. Given that we’ve killed their Emperor and captured the main force of their army, I don’t doubt that they will be substantially in our favor.”

 

He stretches out on the bed, voice turning amused. “There is a much more pressing matter that I need your advice about, however.”

 

Ja'far arches a brow as he lifts his gaze. "And that would be?" It doesn't _sound_ terribly pressing.

 

Sinbad reaches into his sleeves, pulling out a sheaf of paper. “There has been quite a fervor sweeping Sindria in the last several days in response to a certain rumor. Ah, “The King and His General,” that’s an interesting one. It purports to be a _passionate tale of longing, lust, and forbidden love._ ” He hands over the leaflet, hastily sketched in charcoal on one side and penned in furious letters on the other, copied out a hundred times and circulated on the streets.

 

Oh. 

 

Ja'far gives up, flopping backwards and pulling a pillow over onto his face. "Twenty years, all for naught," is his muffled reply.

 

 

Sinbad knows that feeling, all too well. “It gets worse,” he says, handing another over. “Apparently Masrur attempted to rectify the situation by telling them I’d been in a female body for too long.” He squints at another of the pamphlets, impressed against his better judgment. “The art of that is actually _quite_ nice.”

 

"I'm not looking at it." Better to feign impassivity regarding the whole thing, if he doesn't _see_ any of it. A sudden, stark worry rakes through him, though, and Ja'far rips the pillow from his face. "This could very greatly impact your marriageability. All because I was stupid enough to--" Heat washes over his face and he groans, burying his face into one hand. _Why?_ Why did he have to kiss Sinbad in front of so many _people?_

 

Sinbad sighs. “No such luck. Not only have I received over a thousand letters telling me how _charming_ and _romantic_ and _forbidden_ it all is, apparently conquering the most powerful empire on this side of the world has made me a better prospect than ever. I’m trying to figure out how to politely decline the thirty-seven offers of proposal I’ve been given by hand this week.”

 

He’d _liked_ to have teased Ja’far more, but really, the truth is just so miserable.

 

Ja'far starts to protest Sinbad _declining_ all of them, but perhaps it's best not to even begin touching on that right now. And, more importantly--"And here I was thinking of returning to the office tomorrow," he mutters. "Perhaps I should wait another day or so." He does _not_ want to deal with all of those stares. They were going to be bad enough anyway, in response to all that happened. 

 

“Another day would be better,” Sinbad agrees, and flops his head down onto Ja’far’s shoulder. “They’ve made _clothing_ about it,” he says forlornly. “They’ve graffiti’d their own houses with terrible artwork of us. And they almost always draw you too short.”

 

"… Aren't I short _enough_ for their tastes already?" Ja'far asks, offended. 

 

“Apparently not. Though I have to say, this one is my personal favorite,” Sinbad admits, pulling out a rather nice charcoal sketch of himself in female form, with a snake wearing a keffiyeh twining around his arms.

 

"… You're really enjoying this, aren't you," is Ja'far's deadpan, cheeks flushing hotter still. "I only have one question. Has Sharrkan realized that we are sleeping together _now?_ "

 

“Hardly. He’s offered to defend our honor in combat twenty or thirty times. Odd, when you consider that Heliohapt generally doesn’t care one way or another. I think he’s still certain you’re going to have him disemboweled.”

 

"Maybe if he asks his family to properly import some of their finest leaves, I won't." Ja'far groans, twisting himself onto his side and giving into the urge to bury his face against Sinbad's shoulder. "I have never needed to _smoke_ so badly in my life. Please humor me."

 

“Tell me,” Sinbad says, pulling out a pipe and a small tin, “that I don’t know you better than anyone alive. A return gift from Laem, in response to the wedding gift I sent.”

 

"There is a god, and his name is Sinbad, King of the Seven Seas," Ja'far mutters, reaching up to snatch them away from Sinbad.

 

Rarely, _very rarely_ , does Ja'far allow himself a luxury, and this will be one. "Are we attempting to humor Laem, then?" he asks, holding the pipe out for Sinbad to light it. "Even though they attempted an alliance with Kou?"

 

Sinbad laughs, kissing the top of Ja’far’s head before striking a match, holding it out to light the bowl. “If we cast away all future allies because they’d attempted an alliance with our defeated enemy, we’d have precious few left. Besides, these came directly from Kougyoku and her husband, and they sounded quite enthusiastic about staying friend. They also sent a few gifts for Judal and Aladdin, which...I suppose I’ll ask them about later.” He shrugs. “Better friends than enemies.”

 

"Fair enough," Ja'far reluctantly says, and the first, deep inhale is enough to make him put aside some of his feelings of unease. "I will admit, I am rather soured on any and all things connected to the Kou Empire right now. Forgive my hastiness."

 

“I can hardly blame you when I’m the same way.” Sinbad’s voice drops, and he relaxes back, face clouding. “Seeing what they’d done...I don’t know how I stayed my hand as much as I did.”

 

At that, Ja'far wordlessly passes the pipe to him. It's probably best _not_ to go on a tirade about how if the other generals had only _listened_ , things could have been very different. _You don't necessarily know that_ , he chides himself, though he is still _fairly sure_. "Is it as bad, or worse than the last time?" It's hard for him to judge, having being cooped up as he had been.

 

“Hmm, a bit of both. The destruction was worse, I think, but...you would be awed and humbled, as I was, to see the support. Every man, woman and child came together for the rebuilding.” He takes a long drag on the pipe, eyes closing in blessed relief. “I had expected so much more hatred, if not of me, then certainly of Kou. They all just...want to rebuild. I’ve had feasts every day from the new-opened trade routes, that’s helped somewhat, but it’s just the _people_.” He sighs, leaning back against the wall. “Our people are good people, Ja’far.”

 

Ja'far heaves a long sigh of relief, slowly listing to the side to lean his head against Sinbad's. "Yes, they are--due in no small part to their _very_ good king."

 

“Say things like that in public and they’ll be writing novels next,” Sinbad can’t help but tease.

 

In revenge, Ja'far snatches the pipe back away from him. "I suppose there are far worse things they could do with their time," he mutters. 

 

“Indeed, they could be noticing the rather remarkable surge in fertility in Sindria,” Sinbad observes, a grin on his lips. “Plants, animals, people all, everything’s blooming like mad.”

 

"… If that's a joke, I don't get it," Ja'far eventually says, deliberately blowing smoke in Sinbad's face. 

 

Somehow, that is _far_ more erotic than it should be. “It’s not a joke. I’ve got no idea why it’s happened, but there are shoots springing up in fields that have lain fallow this year, and the ones already growing are at amazing heights. The gardeners are baffled. Not to mention the fish, my god, it’s been a long time since there wasn’t a hungry belly in Sindria.”

 

Ja'far's head tilts, eyebrows raising. " _Really_. Perhaps whatever gods exist have decided we have had enough bad luck as of late, and are taking pity upon us." He pauses. "… Then again," he deadpans, "we have two might-as-well-be-gods curled up just down the hall, don't we." 

 

Sinbad opens his mouth, then shuts it again. He takes the pipe back, taking a long drag before handing it back. “They _have_ been doing a rather creditable impression of rabbits,” he admits. “I hadn’t considered it because, well, fertility is such a _female_ thing.”

 

"Please think about Judal and repeat that statement to yourself."

 

Sinbad levels a glare at Ja’far, then dumps out the ash and refills the pipe. “He’s not,” he says firmly. “I checked.”

 

"That's not what I meant," Ja'far sighs, rolling his eyes. All right, perhaps he was _also_ poking fun at Judal's occasionally stereotypical feminine outlook on things, but… "I _meant_ he is a Magi that specializes in water, and has probably raised more female djinn than any other Magi combined as far as we know. Combine that with a polar opposite and the strange things their rukh have always done, and well…"

 

“Ah.” Sinbad nods slowly. “All right, then, that makes sense. For the moment at least, it seems to be working in our favor. I can always try and pull them off of each other if things start getting ridiculous.”

 

"Judal _ran away_ with him," Ja'far dryly points out, sinking back with another, long drag on the pipe. "Good luck with trying to do that."

 

“He’s _my_ Magi,” Sinbad points out with a frown. “I’m sure that between us Alibaba and I could figure something out.” _Maybe. I hope. Who really knows, with Magi?_

 

" _Your_ Magi nearly scared me to death, I should add," he grumbles, shuddering at the memory. "He has become a good actor. _Too_ good of one, I think. Don't let him fool you--and don't say you can't be fooled, because I _know_ how you are when he bats his eyes at you--because he is, in fact, a very good liar nowadays."

 

“Ah yes, he mentioned that to me,” Sinbad murmurs, amused. “He was quite proud of himself. Apparently he considers fooling you to be his greatest achievement as an actor.”

 

Ja'far immediately wants to find the wretch and throw something at him. "Giving me heart attacks is not a good achievement!" 

 

“He _said_ ,” Sinbad adds, soothingly, “that he was rather surprised at himself for being able to be a help to you instead of an idiot nuisance as he would have been in years past. He also expressed his gratitude for your reading lessons.”

 

"Now _that_ is a flat out lie." Unless Sinbad got him drunk. Likely, that. Still, Ja'far finds himself slightly mollified. "I'd like to think his arrival at the very least saved a number of lives. I hope you spoiled him."

 

“Decadently. And while I might have...ah, _embellished_ his speech a little, I guarantee the essence remained the same.” There had been many, many cherries soaked in wine, peaches from Kou, the sort of things he hadn’t been able to afford to import because only Judal had a taste for them. He’d left the Magi’s room filled with mounds of the stuff, and had seen the two diving happily inside.

 

"Good," Ja'far murmurs, shoving aside that last, niggling twinge of guilt that still flares up from time to time. Without Judal, there is no doubt he would have been _dead_ , plain and simple. Those thoughts get pushed aside as well, and Ja'far shuts his eyes as he exhales smoke. At this rate, maybe he'll feel like a _person_ again, less an nervous wreck of an invalid. "Then I suppose my only remaining question regards where you are eating your dinner tonight."

 

“You speak,” Sinbad says softly, bringing Ja’far’s hand up for a kiss, “as though I haven’t spent every waking moment by your side. Whether you sleep or wake, I’ll sup here as long as you can bide me.”

 

"… It's a selfish thing, to not want to share you when Sindria needs you so badly," Ja'far says on a sigh, his fingers curling beneath the brush of Sinbad's lips. "I will return you to our people, at some point."

 

“Sindria _has_ me. The king is in his palace, and all is right with the world.” He grins. “If I let it be known that we’re taking private meals together, they’ll probably start writing songs about us.”

 

"I changed my mind. Get out."

 

“No, I like it here. I’ll feed you from my own hand.”

 

"And here I thought you did not wish to lose your limbs again so soon."

 

“I knew I shouldn’t have given you your wires and blades back.”

 

"I don't need them. I'll bite your hands off," Ja'far threatens, another huff of smoke blown in Sinbad's direction. 

 

A low rumble in Sinbad’s chest and a rakish grin are Ja’far’s only warnings before Sinbad snatches the pipe and kisses him thoroughly. “You seem to have forgotten why you stopped smoking around me. Or did you forget how enticing I find it?”

 

"You find _everything_ enticing," Ja'far protests, even as he sighs against Sinbad's mouth, lurching up enough to grab hold of the front of his robes and haul him down. _And right now, that is a very, very good thing._

 

Sinbad can’t exactly deny _that_ , so he doesn’t try, rolling to cover Ja’far’s body with his own. What a luxury, to simply be against each other, to be able to caress and hold and _kiss_. 

 

He makes a mental note to bring in the fattiest, sweetest foods and shove them down Ja’far’s throat as soon as possible. “You haven’t been eating,” he accuses, hands wandering and finding far more sharp points than Sinbad remembers.

 

"I have, since you returned," is the immediate protest, and Ja'far's hands slide up, dragging down through Sinbad's hair. "It wasn't a priority to eat a four-course meal, you know, when you were gone." _That, and having a bit less meat on my bones would have been a blessing._

 

“Then now you shall have seven-course meals. Or twelve. Whatever I can get you to eat.” Sinbad makes a face. “I don’t want to cut myself on your bones when I make love to you.”

 

Ja'far stares up at him, annoyed, and promptly draws up a leg to shove a foot into Sinbad's hip. "Why am I the only person you like being fat?" 

 

Sinbad starts to say that that’s not true, he likes his girls with a bit of meat on them, it’s only the _lazy_ fat men he doesn’t like, but that will hardly go over well. He grunts, catching Ja’far’s ankle, grabbing it to the side so he can slide in between Ja’far’s thighs. “I like you _healthy_. If that comes with soft thighs to squeeze, the better.”

 

"They're still soft enough," Ja'far mutters, skin coloring at those words. _Or so I've been told, at any rate._ "And I'm not _unhealthy_ ," he adds, shifting to better slide his legs to either side of Sinbad's hips. "I skipped meals, that's all. Forgive me for not wanting to eat out of Kouen's hand."

 

“I like remembering that better when I remember that I cut off his hands,” Sinbad grumbles. “He was so smart for so long. Do you know what his mistake was?” he asks, hoisting Ja’far’s knees up, nestling between them as he bends to brush his lips over the pulse in Ja’far’s neck.

 

 _Must we talk about this?_ "Not having someone like me," is Ja'far's very flat retort, a firm tug on Sinbad's hair coaxing him up to his lips again.

 

Sinbad pauses, then nods, allowing it. “Certainly. But I was thinking...it was in believing that death could keep me from you.” He laughs, and gives Ja’far another kiss. “You always insist on making sense when I’m trying to be romantic.”

 

Oh. Well. That makes it worth talking about, he supposes. "… Haven't I told you before that being romantic is a little unnecessary?" Ja'far murmurs, parting his lips to gently nip at Sinbad's lower lip. "Though, I will tell you a secret. Ah… unless you still want me to bother with surprising you later. I was hoping to be out and about from bed by now, so I'm running behind."

 

Sinbad laughs. “Tell me. And I will have you know that while it might be unnecessary for you, _I_ need to be romantic every very, very now and then.” _And when I thought I’d lost you is a very good time._

 

"I will try to be more tolerant," Ja'far dryly retorts, and his hands splay over the back of Sinbad's neck, fingers kneading in a little with his next, hitching sigh. "I… well. I was _going_ to sit you down on your throne and let you have me there." Admitting it is a dozen times more embarrassing than actually doing it, honestly. "A more proper welcome home gift, I thought, than simply keeping my hair like this for a few days."

 

Sinbad should probably be embarrassed about how fast he hardens at that, pressed up against Ja’far as he is. “The throne room should be empty now,” he breathes, eyes alight. “If you feel that is more _appropriate_ than having you in my bed.”

 

"I'm hardly _dressed_ for it." Does it even matter, Ja'far wonders as his face flushes hot, considering it's all going to come off anyway? "I was _going_ to strip off my robes as I promised I would on the battlefield, climb into your lap and…" He huffs out a soft breath, eyes lidding. "…welcome you home as you _should have_ been."

 

Sinbad swallows hard. “Are you sure you’re quite well enough?” he asks, breath coming a bit too fast. “Say yes, and I will carry you to the throne this instant.” God, and if this isn’t worth everything he’s been through, he has no idea what is.

 

As if he would say _no_ now, after admitting all that he has. That, and the way that Sinbad is looking at him, how hard he is against him, just because of what he's offered--Ja'far shivers, biting into his lip as he shuts his eyes. "I am _always_ well enough for my king. By now, you should know that."

 

Sinbad shivers slightly, and straightens up, standing and lifting Ja’far easily into his arms. “I’m glad now,” he murmurs, nuzzling behind Ja’far’s ear as he walks down the halls, “that I dressed you in your sleep. This would _really_ be lewd.”

 

"Yes, because wandering around in bedclothes about the palace isn't bad enough," Ja'far huffs, trying not to think of how many novels and pieces of 'artwork' this would inspire as is. He curls himself into Sinbad's chest at that thought, hoping, perhaps, that he can blend there as easily as he can with the walls. "And you're _certain_ no one will be there?"

 

“The other end of the hall was torn up,” Sinbad reassures him. “It’s going to be a project to rebuild it in three days’ time.” If he’d known about Ja’far’s little _desire_ he’d have shut it on purpose, but it’s better like this, perfect like this, as he shuts the door to the throne room behind him. 

 

From this angle, everything looks _right_ , the inside of the hall not nearly as destroyed as some other parts, a bit dusty if anything. It still works, it’s still _his_ , and Sinbad relaxes down into the throne. “How well are you?” he murmurs. “I can guide you, you need not stand.”

 

Ja'far is a _little_ annoyed that he can't do this exactly to his specifications. It'll do, though, to huff out a soft breath and twist within Sinbad's arms, setting a knee on either side of his hips as he nuzzles forward, mouth pressing to the side of his neck. "I'm fine," Ja'far murmurs, though he knows very well that standing would be a feat right now indeed. _Another time, and I will make a point of letting my robes slide to the floor before I am even in your arms._ "You are not allowed to ask that every five minutes."

 

A smile curves Sinbad’s lips, and he relaxes back onto the throne, eyes wandering already. “Then that was the last time. Now I can simply enjoy myself.” _I ask because I was terrified the whole way here that I was too late, and you’d never truly be well again. I ask because if I’d been a second later, we would not be here, because you would be dead and I would be alone in a way you swore I never would be._ “It’s natural for a king to worry about his first and most loyal follower, is it not?” His hands come down, sliding down Ja’far’s back, cupping the curve of his ass.

 

"Perhaps," Ja'far allows, sliding a hand down to the bottom of his own tunic, a last, wary glance about following before he pulls it up and over his head, tossing it to the ground. Naked, wriggling in Sinbad's lap in his _throne room_ \--it's the last thing Ja'far thought he would ever be doing, let alone enjoying with a hot, eager little rush raking down his spine, and his arms lacing tight about Sinbad's neck as he lurches up to press an open-mouthed kiss to the side of Sinbad's jaw. "Let me show you how loyal I am," he quietly pleads, shivering as his back arches, the urge to press back into Sinbad's hands too strong to resist. His thumb picks at the tie at the end of his braid, and a swift pull sends the length of his hair spilling free. "This body is yours, my king, so make _use_ of it."

 

Ah, this is _lewd_.

 

Every touch Ja’far gives him crackles with heat, every kiss lingers long after his mouth has moved on, and Sinbad finds himself as helpless as ever, more so with Ja’far breathlessly giving him _power_. To be a king of thousands is good; to be the king of _this man_ is something Sinbad aches to be worthy of. 

 

One hand comes up to thread in the long hair like silk-spun moonlight, and he nearly closes his eyes to better savor the sensation. He stops himself; every second of this, every instant of Ja’far naked, on his lap in his _throne_ , is something to be savored, _treasured_. “I’ll make use of you,” he promises, gathering Ja’far in his arms, tasting his neck, his chest, leaning him back to suck and nip at a nipple. “I’ll make use of you until you’re boneless and begging in my lap. You trust your king, don’t you?”

 

It's a promise that makes him shudder, and Ja'far finds himself nodding before he can even think, heat twisting low in his belly as he pants out a fast, ragged exhale. He _squirms_ , unable to stop himself when his cock is already so, so hard, and rutting down against Sinbad, feeling the other man so hard against him in turn--it's all he can do to bite his lip, choking down a whine. 

 

"I trust you." His eyes flutter and Ja'far groans, fingers twisting tight into Sinbad's hair, his head tipping back to better gulp in a sharp breath. "I can't think," he admits, and he should be more ashamed at how his voice is already such a damned _mewl_ , "when I know what you'll do to me."

 

Sinbad’s eyes nearly roll back into his head at that. His breath hitches, hands tightening around Ja’far, pulling him close as he ruts up a few times, not quite able to help himself. “Good,” he breathlessly praises. “Good, how well-behaved you are for your king. You know you’ll be tended to.” Even as he speaks, he slicks his cock with the aloe he’d brought from his room, the smell reminding him of just how many times he’d soothed Ja’far’s sunburns with the same stuff.

 

He presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the side of Ja’far’s mouth, just a bit sloppy, and his hands slide to the younger man’s waist, lifting him. “I want you,” he says, eyes alight, “to take hold of your king’s cock and guide it inside.”

 

Ja'far is starting to wonder, how one of _his_ ideas turned out to be so damnably _obscene_.

 

At least, he _would_ wonder that, if his mind hadn't effectively clicked off, and all the more so, when his fingers fumble to wrap around Sinbad's cock, trembling in their eagerness. It makes him ache all the more, feeling Sinbad throb in his grasp, and he worries that his knees might give out for a reason wholly unrelated to his lingering weariness. _Sinbad_ makes him feel weak--shivery and desperate and gasping as he squirms down, the press of that thick, slippery head against his hole enough to make him whine even before it sinks inside, and when it does, already spreading him so, so wide-- _oh_ , god.

 

Ja'far pants heavily into Sinbad's shoulder as his head bows, every muscle in his body a bent, trembling thing as he wriggles his way down, stuffing himself so full of Sinbad's cock that he can't _breathe_. It's easier, when he's this eager, but it doesn't stop his eyes from blurring wet from _relief_ when he can finally settle down, chest heaving and hands trembling, and god, he's so full that he hurts, his cock aching as he weakly humps forward to grind against Sinbad's stomach.

 

“Perfect.”

 

It’s a soft, ragged, _awed_ exhale, and Sinbad’s hands tremble slightly when they come up, steadying Ja’far, taking the weight of his body into his arms. Ja’far is so tight, spasming, clenching helplessly around him, so tight it feels like the first time, better, _surely_ he hadn’t been this tight when they were teenagers--

 

Sinbad pants into Ja’far’s neck, thrusting in short, urgent motions for a few seconds before he gets ahold of himself, calms himself down enough to _breathe_. It’s not an easy task when Ja’far is warm and wriggling in his arms, those overwhelmed little noises coming from his lips, the hard press of his cock hot and slippery against Sinbad’s belly. “Just like that,” he murmurs, being as gentle as he _can_ when he’s so damnably aroused, when Ja’far is so _enticing_. “Just like that, that’s everything I want, let’s see you give yourself to me.”

 

He sucks, nibbles on Ja’far’s neck, marks him up, growls, “I want everyone to know how well I served you this night.”

 

There's no stopping the low, breathy groan that escapes him, the urge to let his head loll back as his fingers claw into Sinbad's hair, holding the heat of his mouth to his throat, for once _savoring_ the idea of a dozen bruises that will surely linger. Ja'far shudders hard, body spasming with each long, hard thrust up into his body, and no matter how his legs quiver in protest, it's _better_ , digging his knees into Sinbad's throne, reaching up to grasp the back of it for better leverage to draw himself up--panting, at that slick, slick slide, at how it _hurts_ to be nearly empty--before sinking back down, insistently rocking himself into every lurch of Sinbad's hips. 

 

"Mark me," he rasps, eyes fluttering, rolling back as his body _twinges_ , shivering hard and long. His legs can't quite spread wide enough over Sinbad's lap to make it _comfortable_ taking all of his king's cock, and oh, god, that makes it _better_ , somehow. "M-mark me up, let everyone know and I will wear all of it proudly, my king--"

 

Sinbad takes that advice a little too _much_ to heart, and the bruises he leaves will _stay_ , stay for longer than he’d intended, but ah, that just makes it better. He sucks hard on every bite, marking up the pale column of Ja’far’s neck, his shoulder, the sweetness of the juncture between them, even as he rocks slowly up into his body, every hard suck countered with a tender caress. 

 

“This,” he manages, _barely_ , hanging on to sanity by a thin thread, cock pulsing hard inside Ja’far, aching with every slow thrust, “is where I belong, hmm? On this throne, inside you.”

 

" _Yes_ \--" Every bite, every suck goes straight to his cock, and Ja'far groans, half-sobbing as he buries his face into Sinbad's neck, chest heaving as he reaches a hand back to _feel_ the slick, aching thickness of Sinbad's cock as it slides into him, unable to stop himself when he's already so over-whelmed. His own cock jumps, and Ja'far bites his lip, wriggling down with a little whine. "Every day that you were gone--I couldn't stop thinking about how I _wanted_ you, I--" His breath hiccups, and there's nothing _for_ how his muscles twitch and spasm, no amount of self-control that can keep him from holding back, and Ja'far sobs, writhing and gasping and trembling as he comes, spilling hot and slick between them. 

 

Sinbad presses soft kiss after soft kiss to Ja’far’s face, brushing back sweaty limp hair, holding him close through the shakes. As soon as they subside, even the smallest bit, he starts to move again. “I’m not going to stop,” he warns, voice a hoarse, tense thing, run ragged from the strain of feeling Ja’far writhe around him and _not_ following him over.

 

He shifts back into the throne, and very gently turns Ja’far around, wrapping an arm around his chest and another around his waist, pulling him back tight against Sinbad’s chest as he slides back in, thick and hard and _slick_. “Just like this,” he breathes, Ja’far’s ear easy to reach, easy to suck, easy to bite, and the hand around his chest thumbs over a nipple, sadly not pierced any longer. “Just like this, I’ll use you until I’m satisfied, until you have served your king with everything you have and I’m _satisfied_.”

 

_God._

 

If he hadn't just come, Ja'far is so, so sure those words alone would have been enough. Sinbad is so _hard_ inside of him, throbbing with every twitch and slide of their hips, and Ja'far groans, sagging backwards, his head lolling back against the other man's shoulder. He feels like the basest of whores, _loving_ being so used and full and all the more sated for it, and he doesn't think as he grabs for one of Sinbad's hands, dragging it up to his mouth to suck a pair of fingers inside, mindless, hiccuping moans caught in his throat with each suck and each lave of his tongue. 

 

Sinbad’s only seen _this_ Ja’far once or twice, moaning and writhing and _wanting_ , and that’s not nearly enough times. He’s never seen Ja’far _this_ far gone, so far that he wants and _takes_ without asking, without simply admitting, and it makes him so much harder inside the other man. “Good,” he murmurs again, and ah, he _aches_. “Look where we are.”

 

He rolls his hips, knowing that it’s got to be _too much_ , far beyond the point of care. He can’t stop now, probably couldn’t since they entered the room, and thank god Ja’far doesn’t seem inclined to argue. “This reminds you of your place, doesn’t it? _Serving me. With me._ ”

 

Ja'far manages a sort of desperate nod, his eyes fluttering shut at those words and his legs attempt to spread just a bit wider still. His teeth nip into Sinbad's fingers, a careless scrape as he rocks himself back, whining low in his throat, and only releasing Sinbad's hand with a slick, wet pop to breathlessly, heatedly beg, "Remind me of it _more_ \--mark me, fill me up, _please,_ Sin, I _need it--_ "

 

Any other time, and he'd have the mind to feel _some_ shame for how desperate he is, splayed over his king's lap, spread wide and stuffed full in his _throne room_ , but not now, certainly not now, not when he has been so long _without_. 

 

Ja’far’s neck is going to look like he’s been ravaged by a disease instead of a _king_ by the time Sinbad’s done with it.

 

God, he doesn’t care. He nods in acquiescence, and in a few more savage, unbridled thrusts he lets out a strangled oath, muffled into a freckled shoulder, pulling Ja’far down until he couldn’t _possibly_ get any further inside the man, white sunbursts dancing in front of his eyes as he groans his completion, filling Ja’far hot and slick and _full_.

 

He gathers Ja’far into his arms, laying back on the throne, eyes sliding shut, chest heaving, everything damp with sweat and achingly, painfully _good_. 

 

“I’d almost think,” he pants, arms still tight around Ja’far’s midsection, “that you _missed_ me.”

 

Ja'far just manages a groan, his head turning to the side to bury into Sinbad's neck as he sags back into a heap, whimpering at that sore, trembling motion alone. It is a good thing, really, that he's decided to stay in bed at least another day. He's going to need it, because he doubts he will have the full use of his legs any time soon after _this_. 

 

"An understatement," is the shuddery little whisper, and Ja'far shifts, skin flushing hot when he can still feel Sinbad so deeply inside of him, when he can feel his own body slick and dripping. "I would gladly ride you on your throne and let you have me like this for the rest of the _week_ , at least."

 

That startles a little huff out of Sinbad, and he carefully tucks silvery hair behind one ear, laying a soft kiss on it. “You act as though I’d really been gone from you,” he says quietly. Now that they have some time together, it’s easy to see just how _shaken_ Ja’far has been, and he’s far from wanting to take advantage of that, no matter how delightful the results. “You _had_ to know I would come for you.”

 

Ja'far's eyes lid as he sinks back into Sinbad's chest, a boneless heap as much as the man had promised. "… I thought you were dead." It's a weary admission, and one he _hates_. "Even after arriving back in Sindria… it was some time before anyone _told me_ that you might be alive, and even then I… had no proof for the longest time, no one would _give me_ any, so I planned for the worst." 

 

Sinbad frowns, arms tightening around Ja’far, pulling him closer yet as if to reassure him with his very presence. “It’s not the first time I’ve been thought dead. I always manage to get back home, don’t I? What made this any different?”

 

He doesn't want to talk about this.

 

It will be some time before it doesn't _burn_ , the thought of every single one of his failures, the recollection of no one standing behind him except a handful of servants and Masrur and _Judal_ , at the very last second. It will be even longer before he can say Kouen's name without wanting to set something on fire from his sheer will alone, and he doesn't _want_ Sinbad to know why. 

 

"… Because it was as if no one gave a damn except for me." The words are dull and tired. "Because I _saw him_ throw your limbs to the dogs, because he made a mockery of every little thing you've ever done and our people and--" Ja'far's face is hot, and he shakes as he slinks backward, teeth setting together in a slow grind. "Because you would have never, _ever_ done the things he did." _Even to a 'conquered general' with a too-sharp tongue._

 

Sinbad sits in silence, letting the words fade into the stillness of the throne room. Now, he understands, understands why Ja’far has been so _different_ , and the realization brings him no joy. “I think,” he says, picking his words very carefully, “you had by far the more difficult part of the bargain, though I’d never have imagined that on my way home. I had so many trials, but...I never, _never_ doubted that at the end it would be you and me and Sindria.”

 

He tips his head forward, resting his forehead on Ja’far’s hair. “I can’t imagine how I’d have kept going if that thought were ripped from me.”

 

Ja'far's head bows forward, a shuddering exhale escaping through his nose. "Sindria is mine in your stead, you've always said that. If I had let it fall entirely to him, I…" He swallows. "The worst part, though, was finding out you _were_ alive--and only then, being so sure there was nothing else I could do. If Judal hadn't arrived when he did--" A short laugh escapes, bitter and sharp. "God, I don't know how he tolerated that _swine_. He wanted me to wear a _collar_ \--Judal just took it from him and put it on without a second thought."

 

It does Sinbad an unexpected amount of good, warmth firing in his belly, to hear Ja’far _praising_ Judal, and not just for completing some important task. It squashes any impulse to lord it over him, and instead he only murmurs, “Judal was trained from birth that he was little more than a valuable, exotic pet. You’ve always had a healthy disrespect for authority that I find entirely charming.”

 

"Apparently, only you do." Not that that's a bad thing, not at all. "I am thoroughly incapable of serving any other king." 

 

“As it should be.” Sinbad sighs, stroking a thumb along some of the nearest visible freckles, tracing out a pattern. “If there’s one thing this whole mess has inspired, I’m finally going to acquiesce and declare an heir.”

 

 _That_ makes Ja'far lift his head, turning it back to look at the other man in disbelief. "Don't get me excited about such a thing unless you _mean it_."

 

“I mean _you_ ,” Sinbad says, running a hand down Ja’far’s back. “So there’ll be no squabbling or arguing next time, if there is any next time. You need to have full power of the king so you can hold everyone together and get everything in order before you join me.” Ridiculous, to pretend for the sake of pretty words that Ja’far will long outlive him when they both know the truth.

 

"Oh, well, declare a real one already," Ja'far mutters, even as he sags back again with a slow, relieved sigh. "For when I am done." 

 

Sinbad snorts. “You don’t like any of my children.”

 

"I _like_ all of your children well enough. I just wish they were… oh, to hell with it," he grumbles. "I have long determined that you are correct about heredity not needing to be the deciding factor in who shall govern."

 

“If you have anyone else in mind,” Sinbad allows, “I’ll hear it. I’ll honestly declare whoever you want, on the condition that they not be told.”

 

Ja'far's head slowly shakes. "And I honestly don't know of anyone suitable as of yet. A pity, that your Magi has only marginal sense and no predisposition to lead," he dryly adds. "It would be much easier, handing a country to someone that lives for an indefinite period of time." 

 

Sinbad sighs, leaning back onto the throne. “I will too,” he reminds Ja’far. “So I suppose I’ve got plenty of time to find someone. If _only_ you were a woman.”

 

Normally, he'd send an elbow back into Sinbad's gut. Now, it's a little difficult not to begrudgingly agree. "We would still be a scandal and a half."

 

“Yes, but I’d have the sort of child out of it that I could happily leave everything to.” Sinbad combs his fingers through Ja’far’s hair, winding it into an easy spiral. “And there would be more of a scandal in that case if I _weren’t_ sleeping with you.”

 

"Well, it would certainly be raised right," Ja'far sniffs, shifting as cooling, sticky sweat and fluids start to grate on him--never _mind_ that they're still very much in a 'public' place, and if anyone walked in… _that_ would be the worst scandal of them all. "I think you just like my hair long too much, and are starting to think about impossible things." 

 

“Or I’ve spent far too much time as a woman recently,” Sinbad allows. “I can’t say the thought didn’t occur to me, to stay like that just until I saw you again and just _make_ this happen.” He laughs, and gently lifts Ja’far off of him to sit sideways on his lap. “Stop me, I’m talking nonsense.”

 

"… You would be the worst pregnant woman in existence," is the swift deadpan to follow. "It isn't going to happen. I am not putting up with nine months of you complaining about your figure when you normally regret cutting yourself in a spar for the possibility of having a single scar."

 

“Fine, you do it. You’d be _gorgeous_. And oh, we know you can equip Baal, at least she’s one of Judal’s, I bet he’d--”

 

Ja'far promptly smacks a hand over Sinbad's mouth to shut him up. "Stop."

 

Sinbad licks that hand, then stands, scooping Ja’far up into his arms. “Have you quite had your fill of the throne room? I know you’ve had your fill _in_ the throne room, but you _must_ be catching a chill.”

 

Ja'far scrambles to stretch from Sinbad's arms briefly, snatching up his discarded tunic so as to not leave _evidence._ "A hot bath and a warm bed would be nice," he allows, toes curling at the thought. 

 

“You shall have them. Food, or the pipe, in your bath?” Sinbad asks, leaving the drafty throne room regretfully behind for the warmth of the residential area of the palace.

 

"You are spoiling me." It would be impossible to deny how much he _enjoys_ it, just this once. "Food, first," Ja'far sighs, leaning his head against Sinbad's shoulder. "Then we can smoke in bed while I finish up that bit of paperwork… do you know Kouen insulted our taxation policies at least a _dozen_ times? I wanted to stab him in the eye with my quill." 

 

“You know, the more I hear about this fellow, the less I like him,” Sinbad says lightly. “Did he know you wrote all the tax codes yourself? By the way, I’m giving you a raise as well as hazard pay, accommodate it into the budget.”

 

"Our money could be spent far more wisely elsewhere," Ja'far is quick to dismiss. He makes a note _not_ to let Sinbad see the state of his personal reserves. "And I imagine he didn't know, but if he did, he would have mocked them all the more."

 

“It wasn’t a request. Make a note in the budget.” Sinbad stops short just before entering his room, startled to see that there’s someone waiting outside of it.

 

Sharrkan blinks, then swallows hard, a nervous smile stretching his lips. “Ah...I came to...ask if you knew where Ja’far was…”

 

A protest towards their continued budget debate is on his lips, only to fall short. Really? Why is he even surprised, Sharrkan has _never_ had good timing. "… Obviously," Ja'far dryly says, face hot. "He does." 

 

Sharrkan looks uncertainly from Ja’far to Sinbad, then back again. “Uh, I came to apologize, but I’m sort of getting the feeling I should come back later?”

 

"If you give me five minutes to get properly dressed," Ja'far wearily says, "you can grovel all you want." It's meant as a joke. Sharrkan probably won't take it as one, but it's hard not to want to terrify him a bit more.

 

“Uh...yeah, I don’t mind waiting. I guess you can knock or--”

 

“No, thanks,” Sinbad interrupts. “Come back and grovel tomorrow, he’s tired.”

 

Sharrkan looks a little relieved, mixed in with the disappointment. “Are you sure?”

 

Ja'far shoots Sinbad a _look_ , amused in spite of himself. _Well, aren't you touchy._ "Sharrkan," he sighs all the same, reaching out a hand to simply drop it atop the younger man's head, giving it a solid pat. "I am far from angry with you, so please don't think you need to apologize about anything." 

 

Sharrkan looks up gratefully, grabbing Ja’far’s hand and kissing it, looking like he’d quite like to go to one knee in the best of Heliohapt traditions but not quite managing, what with the angle of how Sinbad is carrying Ja’far. “I’ll do the thing properly later anyway, but _thank_ you. I’ll sleep tonight, and I hope you...uh….that is…not that I mean to insinuate...obviously those pamphlets…” Sharrkan doesn’t quite turn red, something difficult to manage with his complexion, but he does seem to sort of shrink in on himself.

 

"You are the most _oblivious_ child," Ja'far mutters, rolling his eyes. Perhaps that's a good thing, really. "If you would like to be useful and make me happy, go harass Alibaba and light a fire under his ass. He has a lot to learn about tending properly to a country as well."

 

“Usefulness _and_ harassing Alibaba?” Sharrkan grins. “Boy have _you_ got the right man!” He runs off, sketching Sinbad a salute, and Sinbad chuckles as he opens the door, finally snapping it shut behind them. 

 

“Think he realizes about us now?”

 

"Nope," Ja'far flatly replies. "He probably thinks I aimlessly slept walk out of your bedroom to find you while you were attending to your kingly duties."

 

Sinbad snorts. At this point, he wouldn’t even be surprised.

 

The servants have outdone themselves, already having a hot bath drawn, and Sinbad strips off the last layer of his robes before setting Ja’far in gratefully and following him. “Work on the budget. Give everyone in the palace a raise.”

 

"Fine. But I don't need one." Ja'far sighs as he sinks deeper into the water, tilting his head back to thoroughly soak his hair. "It's a waste. Put it back into rebuilding instead." 

 

“Do that yourself. If someone ever finds my books I want it recorded that your loyal service has been rewarded. I don’t care what you _do_ with the money, but you will take it. I heard that your back pay actually helped save the city, so _don’t fight me on this_.”

 

Ja'far opens his mouth, then shuts it again. Of _course_ the people would talk about that after the fact. "You are the most annoying king," he settles upon, stretching out a foot to jab at Sinbad's knee.

 

“And yet the people seem to like me. One of my advisors even told me he refused to serve any other king, if you can imagine that.”

 

"That advisor must be insane. Also possibly a little tired and in need of a haircut." 

 

“Fortunately, that advisor has served his king quite well and may have whatever he desires.” Sinbad smiles, taking a last, lingering feel of that silken moonlight hair. “Quite finished? I could use bed myself.”

 

"Bed sounds very good," Ja'far sighs, though not before twisting the long length of his hair into one hand and leaning over the side of the tub. One of the blades still tied to his arms--he's not sure he'll _ever_ take his vessel off again, to be honest--flips up into his hand, and it takes a single, swift slash to cut through Baal's fine idea of _lingering_. "Don't look so sad about it," he chides Sinbad immediately. "I let you pull it enough."

 

Sinbad sighs. “Merely the lure of the forbidden. As you say, it made me think of impossible things.” He stands, drying himself off, and extends a hand for Ja’far. “I should warn you, I’ll stay by your side until you get very thoroughly sick of me.”

 

"A fortunate thing, then," Ja'far murmurs, taking Sinbad's hand with a firm squeeze and pulling himself up, "that such a thing is rather impossible."


	25. Chapter 25

_Epilogue_

_~_

Ja'far is good at his job.

 

That being said, he has always been able to work in relative quiet, with little interference and little _interest_ directed his way. Now, it is a far different story. _Now_ , most of parliament gives him an odd (or jealous, or admiring, or any dozen other things) look on the best of days, when normally they would scurry to their work as fast as possible. They still do that--though the women blush and the men aren't even sure _what_ to do with him any more.

 

Ah, well. 

 

It just makes him finish up his work faster--all the better, to be done and out of that building and to the privacy of his own chambers. At least, that would be the case most nights, not on the nights that Sinbad decides to throw a party (every other one lately, it seems) and without a doubt, every time, he's roped into going whether he wants to or not. 

 

"You haaave to come," Judal wheedles at him, floating a pace behind before all but curling around his head in mid-air, his hair swishing like a cat's tail as it contemplates pouncing its prey. "Sinbad gets whiny if you don't, and he starts drinking and grabbing my chest like I have boobs." 

 

"I really don't--"

 

"Also, Aladdin will be sad."

 

Ja'far goes.

 

It isn't without utilizing the fact that they are all _together_ , though. Efficiency is key in everything, of course. "You know, Sin," he flatly intones, "now would be a good time, when they aren't locked behind a bedroom door and going at it like rabbits, to _ask them to stop_. Do you _know_ how many children are going to be born in the next year? Sindria doesn't have _room_ for this." 

 

“Don’t worry,” Sinbad reassures him, taking a long swig of wine from the jug--it’s not a party until they’ve foregone glasses, after all. “I’ve asked Judal to raise some land from the ocean. That will solve everything quite neatly, don’t you think? The crops this year are _unbelievable_!”

 

The last is said loud enough that everyone cheers, Sharrkan sending up a cheer of “To the Magi!” echoed by all the surrounding revelers.

 

Aladdin’s cheeks glow rosy, and he feeds a grape to a girl on his knee, and another to Judal on his other side, leaning in between as they both give him a kiss on each cheek.

 

" _Honestly_ ," Ja'far huffs, waving away a jug of wine that's pushed in his direction before being forced to take it anyway. "When exactly were you going to tell me this? There's quite a bit of planning involved with that, you know! I--"

 

It's difficult to keep chiding him when he catches sight of Alibaba, fresh-faced and livelier than Ja'far remembers seeing him in _years_ , hauling Morgiana to her feet and insisting upon a dance. Harder still, not to laugh when another girl (or three) tries to sidle up to Aladdin, and Judal pouts like there's no tomorrow. 

 

Sinbad waves a hand. “He’s only just told me today that he can manage it. Really, it’s the only safe way to expand, if we want to keep the natural water border, and I _do_.” His smile softens, and he leans over a bit farther than he’d intended, head thunking against Ja’far’s shoulder. “Ah, look at them. You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a child there before too long,” he adds, nodding significantly at the dancing couple. 

 

Masrur shifts uneasily.

 

"You're drunk," is Ja'far's impassive retort, but he reaches up to pat Sinbad's head all the same. "Don't create more problems for Alibaba, he already has a dozen to take care of before he needs to think of taking a wife. Masrur, go and ask him about his plans for Balbadd, after they're done." 

 

“Understood.”

 

Sinbad makes a belated grab for Masrur, who seems only too happy to go interrupt the couple. “You,” he affectionately accuses Ja’far, “are no fun at parties at _all_.”

 

"Should I start drooling on your shoulder? That seems to be your idea of fun."

 

A glance up, and notably, Judal is gone--not terribly strange, though, as the Magi does tend to leave to either throw a tantrum or dunk someone in the ocean at least once per party. "I _might_ ," Ja'far says, looking back to Sinbad, "be convinced of a dance myself, if you can contain yourself. I've heard that just close dancing is enough to bring about a child in Sindria nowadays."

 

“Better a fertile nation than any other kind I can think of,” Sinbad declares, to another round of applause. He stands, controlling his liquor _quite_ well in his own opinion, and bows low to his advisor. “If it would please you,” he says, looking up with a sparkle in his eye, “to give me the pleasure of your company?”

 

“Oh, go on!” Sharrkan shouts. “Everyone knows about you two already!”

 

 _Big words,_ Sinbad thinks, _from someone who still thinks everyone’s made a hilarious mistake._

 

Ja'far wryly smiles, no matter the flush in his cheeks as he bows his head, offering Sinbad his hand. He probably won't _ever_ get used to this, but he supposes so long as everyone within Sindria is happy, then what does it matter? "I would be honored, Your Majes--"

 

"Your Majesty! King Sinbad, Prince Alibaba!"

 

Ja'far nearly draws a blade at the messenger that rushes up far too quickly for his liking, and the man goes white in the face at the fleeting look in Ja'far's eyes. "A message, from Balbadd," he breathlessly says, extending the scroll. 

 

 _So much for a peaceful evening_ , Ja'far lightly sighs. 

 

Judal, meanwhile, is glad to miss out.

 

It's a different sort of headache that he has now, a throbbing, aching mess that spreads down his spine. It's the black rukh, he knows, remembers the sensation _well_ from when he was a child, when he was still turning and it was all half-and-half, a teeming mess of black and white that would never quite settle. 

 

This is almost worse, because it isn't quite half, and it's all the more unbalanced. 

 

He lifts a hand to pluck at a stray, fluttery little piece of it as he dangles his feet off of a pier and into the ocean, the black rukh far more violent when caught and thrashing wildly until released. He almost misses it, the _unhinged_ feeling that it would bring… but the sooner it's gone again, the better.

 

Maybe then, he will stop being _watched_ all of the time. 


End file.
